. decided i should post this, since i'm writing an original novel, this story is taking some more time than i expected
20: Engineer
1
Birtz Robern had always wanted to be a mechanical engineer, and the only one who knew that was Lincoln Loud.
He worked endlessly, sweat lining his forehead in a soft glimmer. A bead sluiced down his temple. He knuckled it away. His desk lamp shafted out gold light; his newest work glinting off light in blinks. Cables fell over its exposed top in corkscrews, snarls of copper wires poking out of their ends. There had been a faint rise of smoke into the air; but Birtz got it off quickly. He knew what he was doing here, knew a lot more here than he did when doing whatever kind of bullshit science Dad had wanted him to do, knew a lot more here than he did with anything else for that matter.
He fitted a small plastic container onto the butt of the alarm clock. It clicked into place. Made to hold liquid. A hole had been drilled into the top. Birtz grabbed a notched disc and screwed it on. There was a hint of struggle as Birtz tightened the cap to its last band of resistance, his wrists flaring with cords which seemed to be trying to break out of the skin. The muscles on his forearm thickened, and he was done.
Few wires were left to connect. There had been a green switchboard somewhere in there, topped with a maze of silver and gold, cables fixed to its edges as well. He finished up everything and set the alarm on the clock. Then it would be all set, and he would invite Lincoln over to check out his new 'creation.' The spitting alarm clock, he would call it. Or maybe he would give Lincoln the honor of naming this monstrosity.
Sweat stood on his brow in an oily sheen. He knuckled it away. Rain began to fall, sweeping restlessly against the panes of his bedroom window. He looked in its direction, stood up, nudged his chair in, and walked over. Beads sluiced down in crystal tracks. Thunder whipcracked in a sound that might have been muffled inside, but was likely deafening outside. He felt an odd heaviness in one of his legs. A wave of imbalance swam through him. He teetered, tried to regain his balance, but fell onto his bed, his head an anchor of white heat.
Birtz's head struck the pillow in a soft thud. The box-spring mewled. He kept his eyes open forcibly, trying to make sense of what was happening; stab a clear line of coherence through his muddled thoughts. Tired. He was tired. Likely tired from pouring every one last bit of his intelligence into that alarm clock, the one Lincoln had suggested to him during their trip to the GLOD. Much as he thought of Lincoln as this delicate little flower who couldn't hold his own, he had been surprised he stood up for himself in such a fashion.
Starlight coursed through the window and ran along his green comforter, lightening it. Lincoln had stood up for himself, right? He was thinking about that? Man, he must have been really tired. Lincoln did stand up for himself, though. He had not only just done that, but also beat the living daylights out of all of them. All three of the big tough guys; Arnold Sawyer, Xavier Ferguson, and Nathaniel Morrison. He adjusted himself in bed, his hair ruffling against his pillow case. But how? Did Lincoln have some kind of unseen strength, like he had been training in secret?
There was no chance. Lincoln was as thin as a rail, as he had been when he first met him. Sometimes, his shirt even highlighted his jutting ribs; two skin-sheathed knobs, the base of two skeletal ladders. As far as he could tell, Lincoln was the type of person to pull a muscle trying to open a well-sealed bottle of Dasani. But no, something was different; very different this time around.
His eyes fluttered shut, but thunder shafted to the ground — moving in what he best called "electric branches" — in another resounding noise, and he forced his eyes open again. Birtz groaned and narrowed down on his thoughts, thinking of how Lincoln could have done such a thing. But answers were something of dreams . . . and dreaming had not sounded so bad right about then.
Then his phone vibrated, white light blotting a good section of his ceiling, a mechanical shiver racing through the wooden top of his desk.
He scooped his phone in his hands and read the notification: Linc has added you to a chat.
A smile creased his face, his mouth moving to utter "what's this?" but succeeding in uttering no more than a rusty series of whistling aspirations. His throat was dry and could do with some liquid; but he figured Dad would not be so happy to see him up this late, and had more sense than to follow through with it. No calls, hopefully. Only texting in this chat, which one of — if not his only — best friends decided that the best time to start it was at the brink of midnight.
He entered his texting application. The texts were lined up in small little chat bubbles, blue and purple to different users. The top of the screen made sure to denote that Lincoln was not the sole member of this chat, and that there were a few unsaved numbers in the bunch.
Lincoln: hey birtz, how about you get in touch with the gang?
Birtz felt his lips arch into a puckish smile, and he began to type:
absolutely not.
A bell tolled, and a message materialized onto the screen.
Lincoln: better stop lying to yourself burpy boy
Birtz stifled a laugh, to make sure his father would not hear, otherwise that laughter would likely turn to tears.
k.
A text popped up. This one was from an unknown number:
Why tf are you guys awake? Let me sleep
Then without pause, another text:
actually i'm a fan of this, keep it going boyzz
Lincoln: okay, you cant tell who these people are so let me sort things out
Lincoln: the grouchy one is zach
Lincoln: the guy who's a fan of this is rusty
Birtz: ic. what about the rest?
Lincoln: just gotta wait for them to wake up
Birtz: how long you figure?
Rusty: i say like 5 seconds
A couple of seconds later, the bell tolled again.
What's going on? Yall planning to talk the hind leg off a donkey at this hour?
The use of a barnyard idiom seemed all too familiar; what was the farmboy's name? Liam?
Lincoln: that's prty obviously liam
Liam: It sure is!
Rusty: bingooo, i was on point
Lincoln: huh
Rusty: liam answered in like 5 seconds like i said
Zach: Shut the fuck up Rusty, no one cares
Rusty: whats your deal fire-top
Zach: You won't grant me sleep, carrot-top
Lincoln: can you guys stop?
[can you guys stop]
Rusty, replying to Lincoln: def not
[can you guys stop]
Zach, replying to Lincoln: Yes please, I'm gonna pass out
Birtz stifled mad laughter and typed.
Birtz: i'm enjoying the show. please nooo!
Rusty: dont worry birtz nobody will miss him
Rusty: just kidding i love you zach
[just kidding i love you zach]
Zach, replying to Rusty: Ayoo
Zach: Okay bye
Lincoln: see you tomorrow
Birtz: who else are we missing?
Lincoln: well Zach just died, but we're only missing Stella
A text from a new unknown number, which was presumably the latter in question:
Oh how wrong you are, I've been spectating...
Lincoln: damn
Stella: Don't worry though I'm having to stop myself from laughing so hard
Birtz: same.
Lincoln: you guys got some plans?
Rusty: nah i'm ugly so no dates
Lincoln: okay mr 6 foot tall
Stella: Nope I should be free
Birtz: i'm free if i can get past my dad.
Birtz: i suggest you stop over at my house cuz i have a surprise for you!
Rusty: am i included
Birtz: uhh...
Rusty: darn
Stella: Keep out of their business lol
Rusty: mk
Lincoln: i think we should have an old timey meetup
Rusty: i smell an arcade suggestion
Stella: That would be sweet
Stella: Like veryyy sweet
[i smell an arcade suggestion]
Lincoln, replying to Rusty: my EXACT thoughts
Birtz: arcades will be a first for me
Lincoln: lmaooo no way
Lincoln: your in for a treat
Stella: You're*
Lincoln: frick
Stella: Hahaha I got you
Rusty: i would kick everyone's ass at that one game where you go through the maze
Lincoln: you mean pacman
Rusty: ya my bad
Stella: I would be down any day
Stella: Would just need to slide it by my parents
Lincoln: sounds good but they might not let you
Stella: Why?
Lincoln: because
[Like veryyy sweet]
Lincoln, replying to Stella: i think its too sweet
Lincoln: not sure if theyre still into that health kick from 4 years ago
Lincoln: i mean maybe if it was JUST sweet ... but you said VERRRRYYYY sweet
Stella: Omg you remember that lol
Lincoln: heck yes
Lincoln: and that memory will be following you around for the rest of time
Stella: Should I be creeped out
Lincoln: depends on which way you want to interpret my message
Rusty: hmmm i say
Rusty: yes to the arcade
Lincoln: okay
Rusty: and a strong no to the health kick
Stella: Stoppp lol
Birtz: so i'm just watching here, or what?
Stella: Now you know how I felt
Birtz: well i be damned.
Lincoln: okay so it seeemss like everyone agrees
Lincoln: arcade should be a certainty but we need to ask Zach tomorrow cause he's dead
Rusty: he will respond by morning
Stella: By the way
Stella: We are missing Liam
Lincoln: didn't he join
Rusty: well with the way he joined in i don't think he was gonna stay for very long
Lincoln: what was the way he joined in?
Birtz: i remember. he seemed to scold us for talking a lot at this hour.
Rusty: ahhh he prolly went to bed then
Stella: Unfortunate
Birtz: i think ill go to bed too guys.
Lincoln: noooo
Rusty: ah its been a fun journey, good night comrade
Stella: I think I'll go to bed too
Rusty: ah shit everyone's leaving now
Lincoln: it's okay rusty, we can chill together
Rusty: lets gooo
Stella: You guys go into a private DM
Stella: You're gonna end up blowing up my phone until 2 AM
Lincoln: ok ok
Lincoln: you're wish is my command
Stella: Very appreciated
Stella: Goodnight Lincoln
Lincoln: bye
Birtz: cya tmrw bro. can't wait to show you my surprise
Lincoln: oh really lol. anyway ill see you tmrw dude
Rusty: night
Birtz dropped his phone to the desk. It clattered for less than a second, and when it stopped he pressed a hand to his forehead. He was sweating, oiling up his forehead. The heater downstairs was droning; he could hear it travel through the vents and spill out of the grate in his floor. His brown hair drooped over his forehead, those part of the cowlick at the back of his head up in spears. He slicked his hair back, wondering dully what to do next. He wanted sleep, yes. He also wanted water, yes. He also wanted to brush his teeth, yes. He also wanted to change in his pajamas, yes. But on top of all of that . . . was that same, underlying fear of Dad. He was already a stick in the mud to begin with. But recently, he found Dad's behavior to be a bit peculiar.
The weird look in his eyes could be one thing; or maybe the way he had been hiding them earlier that morning. His daily issue of newspaper had been drawn up to his eyes, even as he walked down the stairs. And his voice . . . what was wrong with it? When he spoke, he sounded scary; crazy, even. His utterances were a smoky fuse to dynamite — as if it might explode, as if there might be an outburst suppressed behind the seemingly calm words he spoke in. And the dinner he ate; what the hell kind of meat was that?
Birtz shook his head. "It is what it is," he said somewhat flatly. He scrabbled into a seated position and clutched his knees to his chest. He sucked his lips in, as if wanting to cry. "Dad doesn't love me. It's really true."
But the tears never came, because Birtz was done crying. Tears should only come in the dawn of tragedy, and he had been living through this perpetual tragedy for years now. If he was still crying, he was weak. And he wasn't weak . . . he didn't want to be. Arnold Sawyer's voice sprinted through the foreground of his mind like a shadow (You need to learn to keep that big ass-kisser of yours shut) but he pushed it away. Pleasant thoughts turned up at the forefront of his mind all the time, and he was used to pushing them away. Especially the thoughts of Dad not loving him — but as of late, he was quite a professional at accepting those thoughts in particular.
If Dad really loved him, why would he have needed to dumpster dive for the alarm clock's components? Why would he need to live in fear of being caught doing things — things which were especially considered normal in the public eye — in front of Dad? Why would he need to hide his real aspirations? Why would he need to be burdened with the responsibility of inheriting something he hated?
He threw his legs over the drop-off of the mattress, figuring he ought to brush his teeth and get a glass of water should the next morning not be a shitty one. A warm cramp festered in his back, seemingly out of nowhere. He remembered then, that Arnold's hands had tightened around his forearms, wheeling them both around, before losing grip quite purposefully (f you would ask him) and putting Birtz down on the floor, not before the edge of the table found his back and drove into it, squeezing the air out of his lungs and keeping him down on his ass for a considerable amount of time . . .
This thought drove this question even further: How did Lincoln fight them off?
He decided he would find out as soon as possible.