Fooly-Cooly: The Pennsylvania War

by BigCountry75

Jeff 'Rig' Carson has a busy to-do list: Train G&R's new apprentice Naota Nandaba, hunt for Atomsk, prevent a Medical Mechanica incursion from becoming a war, keep an eye out for Haruko, resolve a decades-long family feud, battle his own demons AND keep his sanity, while all of these forces converge on his hometown of Osceola Mills. Knowing FLCL, 50/50 odds on the sanity, at best.

3. Chapter 3

Hey hey! What's new, what's goin' on, how y'all doin'? It's been a while Fanfiction, life has been getting in the way. 40-50 hour work weeks, finally being able to afford flight lessons, and deciding whether to get Star Wars Battlefront, Fallout 4, The Tomb Raider or Black Ops III...decisions, decisions. But while I try to make up my mind on how to best waste my free time, here's the newest chapter of Pennsylvania themed, Fooly-Cooly styled adventure! It took a while to get this written up, so I really hope you enjoy it!

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. . .

"That's enough, pause it please." The Head of The Board ordered. The Aide tapped his touchscreen, stopping the video with half the screen filled with static, the other obscured by stones and a steel-toed motocross boot. "What do we make of this gentlemen? Let me hear your thoughts, you are the experts."

"First…and foremost, we have confirmed that Nandaba's portal is definitely active; in fact, it seems to have improved its connection over the years." The Director of The Security Council said, reviewing his notes. "Second, and troubling, is that he has talented friends."

"Do we have any information on any of them?" A Security Councilman pointed with his handheld laser at the corner of the video screen. "Actually, back it up to the…yes, hold it! Our unit had a much better shot here." The camera feed, now static free and upright, showed two men. One was armed with a crowbar, the other with a long metal rod. "Anything at all?"

"Facial recognition of known enemy agents has come back inconclusive." Another Councilman answered. "As far as our database can tell, this pair were merely lucky bystanders."

"I don't like it though." The Head grumbled, running his hand over his polished scalp in a nervous tic. "Two, what do they call them, Regular Joe? Humans, taking down an Industrial Heavy Class…with blunt tools? No, something's off here."

"I agree sir, it was too much of a coincidence." A Board member piped up, nervously twiddling his thumbs. "Perhaps, if I may be so bold, I could recommend construction of an Assassin Class?" He proposed and was received with a flutter of murmurs across the table, little cliques discussing the idea. All attention swiveled towards The Head, awaiting his words.

"I would say…yes. And immediately. Also, Aide. Add to my list contacting the team we have stationed on Earth. I want to know their take on this, any information they might have about enemy agents, and…why not? Their plans should they encounter resistance."

"Right away sir." The Aide said, already typing orders and adjusting The Head's schedule.

"Good, now what's next?"

"The…" The Aide paused to scroll through the joint Security Council and Board's itinerary. "Locally based allies that our team has recruited and their progress."

"And? Is this new strategy bearing fruit?" The Head inquired as the bullet points shunted the Industrial Class's camera feed off the projection screen and took the forefront; seven pictures each with their own biography. Councilmen and Board members readied their own touchscreens, or the more old-school their pencils, to take notes.

"This is their progress thus far. They are in the process of shutting down a coal and natural gas company, named Roman's Mining. Once acquired, it will provide us with a base of operations, plentiful resources and energy, and enough territory to keep the site secure from prying eyes. Once that site is secured, there are seven others in the immediate vicinity they have chosen as targets."

"It sounds promising, what's our timetable?" Pa-Ping. The Head was interrupted by a chime from his Aide's touchscreen. "What is it?"

"A message from our team on Earth." The Aide reported. "They send good news! Roman's Mining has capitulated, the owner has elected to sign over the company and property; we have our toehold!" He read with relish and the Councilmen and Board members broke into gloating grins.

"Begin dispatching the construction crews as soon as their equipment is loaded. Have them begin work immediately upon their arrival." The Head, although immensely pleased, was still focused on the task at hand. "Time is our most precious commodity, let's not allow ourselves to waste it in self-congratulation. That facility needs to be operational, yesterday! Now, gentlemen…" He addressed the room as a whole. "You know the risk we are taking. What was that number again, General?"

"Seventy-five percent Sir." The Commander of Medical Mechanica's Marine Expeditionary Force answered.

"A seventy-five percent chance of push-back, if detected." The Head repeated for emphasis to a hushed chamber. "This. Must. Work."

"Merely name what needs to be done and it shall be."

"Send along a battalion with the crews. I want them to have the best security we can offer." The Head ordered, receiving an exasperated gasp in response. "Is there a problem?"

"A…a battalion sir?" The Logistics Officer's eyes grew wide at the figure. "Sir, we currently do not, nor never had, have a battalion sized unit!"

"Then make one." The Head commanded. He turned his gaze to the faces of the seven Earthlings that Medical Mechanica had turned traitor. "It may seem outlandish, and overkill, but we cannot lean our full weight on these humans. They are after all, flawed, weak and fragile by nature. An insurance policy is a safe bet, should they fail."

"I agree completely." The Chairman of the Security Council said, closing any discussion on the matter before it could even begin. "All that remains now is to monitor our progress and trust our team on the ground to, well, do what they do best. And if I may speak freely, unless any real resistance emerges, Earth is already as good as ours."

"Careful Councilman." The Head cautioned. "Pride, and the Hubris that comes with it, is more dangerous than one of our Irons…and that's saying something indeed."

. . .

"'Kay…seems like nothin's broken…if I'm readin' these right." I looked at the X-rays Canti was projecting at the office wall. The doctor at Williamsport's ER had given Naota a clean bill of health, except for a brutal concussion. We had managed to leave before he could ask too many questions about the hollowness of Naota's skull. Now it was up to me to figure out how to debrief him. Even though I'd had the entire drive back, I still hadn't thought of anything witty.

"Nothing feels broken, just sore." He clarified from the office couch. He now sported a turban made of two icepacks and a wrapped towel to hold them in place. "Now I know why you guys call it a Headache Ball."

"Uh-huh, the name really doesn't leave much to imagination." We had made it back home by five and without any more incidents. It was nearing seven, George had gone to the house and Tommy had roared away in his truck, also homeward bound. "Speaking of imagination, I'm trying to use mine to explain why your head is hollow." This was a test boys and girls. I had to gauge how open Naota was willing to be. That would shape how the rest of his training would go. The more he was willing to tell me, the easier my job was going to be.

"Oh, that? Funny story…" He sighed, perhaps wondering how to begin, how to explain things in a way that wouldn't scare me off. "About four years ago, a pink-haired alien named Haruko Haruhara, ran me over with her Vespa scooter, whacked me over the head with a bass guitar that opened a wormhole-ish channel in my head, that occasionally killer robots pop out of while under orders from an organization that tries to take over planets by turning the inhabitants into brain-dead slaves…and I really have no means of controlling it."

"Oh." I said, both in a little of pretend and mostly genuine surprise. We, Overwatch, try to avoid those under our responsibility knowing who and what we are. The more normal their life, the better; especially since their lives are hectic enough already. No one is ever placed into Overwatch custody because they just needed a weekend vacation. We want to be concerned and helpful comrades, not suffocating bodyguards, or worse, as some have described the feeling, jailers. Protective custody can feel like being trapped in a prison after all. But I was quite surprised Naota would be so upfront about himself, maybe he felt he didn't have anything to hide? I mean, he did have a seven foot tall robot companion in the room. In my opinion, it wasn't a matter of not having anything to hide, his N.O. channel was just something he had accepted about himself; relegating his portal's significance to something as ordinary as a birthmark or Hitchhiker's Thumb. In other news, his attitude about it was going to make my life immensely easier! So…yay! "That's, well, that's quite the story man. So…what sets it off?"

"I've given it some thought, and it seems to be either when I'm under extreme emotional stress, or getting hit really, really hard, or a combo of both." He explained in a practiced tone, he really did understand his own noggin'. To me, this was brand-new info. For even everyone in the loop, N.O. is seen as some sort of black magic or voodoo. The only exceptions seemed to be Medical Mechanica or those with a personal portal of their own. Some people, like Haruko from what I'd heard, could manipulate N.O. a little for their purposes, but didn't come remotely close to grasping its properties. Think of someone who can drive a car incredibly well, but has no idea how anything under the hood works. To them, it could be an engine in there powering everything, or a bunch of hamsters on those little wheels making it go. Same concept, but with N.O.

"It's no big deal though, it doesn't really bother me all that much." There's that aloof indifference his file mentioned. "I mean, it seems like this one was a dud. The bot they sent didn't even try anything on me."

"Who sent what, to do what?"

"Oh, the Medical Mechanica organization. They're the ones who built Canti here; he was the first one that came out of my head." Canti turned his monitor towards me and waved. I still wasn't one-hundred percent about that green-blue robot, but Naota seemed to have some sort of hold over it, so we were ignoring our standing order regarding bots…his behavior pending. "But they sent a few more like, assassin-type, robots to shut me down. They didn't last long against Haruko, Canti and I. Then they finally sent this huge one to try and activate one of their factories."

"Hold up, factory? What do they do?"

"Flattens planets. Okay, not literally!" He laughed, seeing the look of 'What the effin' hell man?!' on my face. "It messes with people's brains, turns them into zombies or something like that."

"Oh, well, if that's all, not so bad, right, totally not a huge deal, right?"

"Not really no. The last time M-M tried anything on Earth they got their asses kicked." He bragged, making it sound like it was all his doing. I knew there was a little more to the story than that, but I'd let him have his moment.

"Uh-huh…okay, well you must've missed a spot. They did send a bot, and it was pissed."

"How do you know? Did one actually make it through?"

"We have it in the shop in you wanna take a gander." I got up and headed for the office door. "And don't worry, it's dead. Tommy and I gave it a 'Welcome to Earth' party."

"How'd you go about that?" He asked, getting up to follow me and his curiosity. "The last ones were pretty tough, the biggest was the size of a skyscraper."

"And it came out of your head? How in bumblefuck does that work?" I was actually asking, I'd never seen myself an N.O. portal in action. This was really good stuff, certainly notebook worthy!

"They start off kinda at a pinpoint, like an inverse funnel." He put his hands on top of his head, then raised them up and out. "And grow up and out from there."

"I almost wanna see that…lemme get a sledgehammer…"

"Don't you dare! Once in four years is one too many!" He warned, but not too seriously, laughing it off. "So are you going to show me this bot or not?" He asked as we stood outside the shop's regular door. We had closed and shuttered the main doors, no peeping eyes allowed!

"On one condition. Don't tell anyone about it, or we have it, how we got it, or…"

"Yeah, yeah, Area 51 level security, got it!" He saluted, then tried to work his way between me and the door. "Just don't go shouting around about my head and we've got a deal."

"Done." I agreed in the easiest bargain ever made. I opened the door and ushered Naota in to behold the creation his head had wrought; and G&R's newest mad scientist project.

. . .

There it was, right before his eyes. Hanging from a steel crossbeam by a set of hefty chains was a ten-foot tall and bright red Medical Mechanica robot. Its left eye was a gaping socket, the actual eyeball had been removed and was laying on a workbench on a nest of its own frayed wires. Underneath the robot, a kiddie pool collected the green hydraulic fluid it was leaking from several torn lines. The rest of the shop was shrouded in darkness, the area around the bot illuminated by a solitary fluorescent panel above the robot, the glow of two computer screens and three cigarette pinpoints; the smoke wafting into the blackness of the ceiling.

"Whatcha got Josh?" Rig put his hands on the back of the computer chair and leaned over the operator's shoulders to look at the screens. "Anything good? C'mon talk to me, I don't know what any of these words mean."

"They mean, that I would have a lot more…" Josh explained as he tapped away on the keyboard. Josh was in his late 20's, lanky and thin with a light brown goatee, tired brown eyes and a spare cigarette tucked behind his ear; in addition to the glowing one in his mouth and the three crushed in his ashtray. "If you hadn't stabbed it in the head. Your tie-down bar went straight through its core processor."

"But that's always been the most effective way to kill…" Another G&R member began, then abruptly stopped upon seeing Naota. "You can still make it run, right?"

"Ohhh…Johnny-boy, I'll bet a carton of Camels I can make it do more than that." Josh hit a solitary key and leaned back as something loaded on the screen. "By the time I'm done with it, I'll have it tap dancing, spilling its darkest secrets and fetching our slippers."

"I think a carton of cigs would be worth it, to see all that!" Johnny chuckled. He was a middle-aged man of medium height and portly, graced with a heavy, well-groomed mustache, and a set of constantly narrowed eyes; like someone had just told him a brain-teasing riddle.

"Hey Mike, can you double check our connections? I don't want to overload anything." Josh rotated in his chair and pointed with his cigarette at the arm thick bundle running from the computers and other dark corners of the shop. They all converged into an open panel on the robot's back. "Check both ends of the cables, then stand-by to give it power…annnnd…Rig. Who's this?"

"This's Naota, our new apprentice and the head that robot crawled out of. The silent one behind him is Canti." Rig introduced them as Josh finally saw the two extra bodies.

"Rrrrrealllly? Well, that's all kinds of interesting." Josh and Johnny both introduced themselves. "Mike! You gotta meet this dude! So, how does it work, the robot coming out of your head?"

"Well…it's a long story…" Naota began then was greeted by a third G&R employee.

"Hi, name's Mike. Yours is Naota, right? So awesome to meet you, did that robot really come out of your head? How does that work? Could you describe it again, in detail? Am I asking too many questions?" Mike appeared like he would be at home on a rumbling Harley motorcycle, perhaps as a member of a biker gang. He was a great bear of a man in his early twenties, intricate tattoos swirled his arms from his wrists to disappearing into his shirt sleeves. Fiery red head hair and a long, full, lumberjack style beard completed the look. However, the intimidating effect was marred by his cheery disposition and a pair of small, rounded frame glasses.

"No, no, it's fine." Naota shook Mike's hand as well and explained to them what little he understood about N.O., retelling the events that happened in Mabase four years ago. "Hey, are you…?"

"Taking notes? Of course." Josh said, looking up from his notepad. He, Johnny and Mike all had little notebooks they were furiously scribbling on as he talked.

"This's really cool stuff man, aliens, giant robots, evil corporations, hot babes, and all that." Mike added as Johnny looked at his notes to compare.

"I forgot to warn you Naota. We may be fabricators…" Rig explained, not looking up while he jotted something down on a pocket sized notebook of his own. "But we're also a bunch of nerds."

"We prefer technological visionaries." Johnny clarified as he updated his notes from Mikes.

"And! My fellow visionaries, or whatever…" Josh said as his computer pinged. "We are ready! Mike, Johnny, man your posts!"

"What exactly are we ready for?" Naota asked as Josh, Johnny and Mike moved into position. "What's the computer doing?"

"Right now we have it, oh just pull up a chair." Josh waved him over. Rig handed him a stool and he sat down next to Josh. "See this display? Right now we have it hooked up to a series of diagnostic tools." He explained, pointing out different displays on the monitors. "The one that just finished is very similar to the one you hook cars up to when you wanna see what's wrong with them. We had to make some mods to it of course…"

"Like what?" Naota asked, amazed how the members of G&R weren't scared off by his story, but seemed genuinely intrigued. It was not the reaction he had expected, quite the opposite. The attention lauded on him and Canti in the form of ceaseless questions wasn't bad either.

"Well, where to begin? Uh, the plug-in interface for one. This bot doesn't use the same plug as us. Ours is a multi-pronged do-dad, and theirs is similar to an auxiliary port…kinda-ish. Looks a lot like the headphone plug on an ipod. Figures aliens would be using Mac hardware, and that's why I'm gonna run some Linux on this bitch, spin in your grave Jobs. Yo Mike!" He paused to call for an update from Mike.

"We are ready to divert power, all cables and connections accounted for!" Mike confirmed from the shop's vast bank of circuit breakers.

"Johnny, ready on your end?"

"Born ready." Johnny picked up a long metal spar with a fork at the end, and held it on the crook of his elbows while pulling on thick rubber gloves. He stepped over a cable attached to the back of the spar, its source also somewhere in the dark.

"Now what's that for?" Naota asked as Johnny adjusted a knob on the small unit at the spar's connection point to its cable.

"Well, we only built it just today, so we don't have a real cool name for it yet."

"The Zappinator-Two-Thousand." Josh said without looking away from his computers. "That's what we voted on. Two-to-one, you lost Johnny."

"Anyway…" Johnny ignored Josh and continued. "Think of it as a robot Tazer." He explained, showing Naota the controls. "If it gets too persnickety, I poke it with the lead ends and ZAP! It'll make the bot sit right down."

"Do you think it would be possible to make another, portable one?" Naota asked, yearning for one of his own in case more robots came out of his head to try their luck.

"No promises, but we'll see."

"Alright, quiet on the set!" Josh ordered and everyone hushed. "Get ready for the awesome. Lights, camera, action!" Mike flipped a breaker with a massive clunk, causing the only light and the computer screens to flicker. The robot shuddered at the sudden influx of power but still hung as lifeless as ever. Then it shuddered once more, swinging on its chains and shaking dust from the rafters. It moved its right arm slowly, then tried out its left arm and legs. Naota could only guess it was testing its limbs.

"How we doin' Josh?" Rig asked, not taking his eyes off the bot.

"It's awake, that's for sure." Josh answered. "I'm going to start taking the restrictions off. Mike, be ready to kill its power and Johnny, have that thing set to full." Naota felt like he was in the company of mad scientists, trying to resurrect a corpse. Only this subject was made of metal and circuits instead of flesh and bone. As the robot stretched its limbs, he felt a growing excitement despite his misgivings. Perhaps this was the first step? By learning how the robot worked, it could lead to an understanding of N.O., the portal in his head; the possibilities were endless really. Working for G&R was turning into a real trip, with experiments on a robot from another planet, galaxy…dimension? How cool was that?!

"Hey Josh, it 'sposed to do that?" Rig asked as the bot began to work itself free of the chains holding it up.

"Uhmmm…I don't think so…" Josh scanned his screens.

"You don't think, or you don't know?" Rig asked, glancing from the robot to Naota, then positioning himself between the two of them.

"Okay, I don't know!" Josh admitted. "This's the first, whatever this is, robot, I've actually gotten to work on! It's a little more complex than a damn Prius! Mike, kill its power." He ordered with a slashing movement across his neck. Mike pulled the breaker lever up, denying the robot external power. It continued to struggle.

"It recharged a helluva lot faster than I had calculated." Mike observed as it unhooked the first chain. "Such amazing resilience! So hard to completely kill!"

"Yeah, miracle of engineering." Josh remarked dryly, lighting his spare cigarette and burning up half of it in one hard pull; all while furiously battling the robot's own computer. "It's getting away from me!"

"Yer gonna wanna back up some." Rig advised. "It's in a real pissy mood. Okay Josh, what do you want me to do?"

"You, Naota and Canti to stay out of the way." The robot was now free and lowered itself to the floor. It swiveled its half-blinded head, the wires trailing from its left eye socket clacked against its face. It took a wobbly step forward, arms wide for balance, and favoring its right leg.

"It can't see us, right?" Naota asked a split second before realizing the robot could still probably hear him. It turned towards his voice, shaking the floor as it shuffled across the shop. A hand reached out, powerful and large enough to crush his entire body like an egg. He backed up further and felt something solid at his back; he was pinned.

"Today Johnny!" Josh ordered. There was a buzzing, crackling sound, then a sizzling and the smell of ozone, followed by a loud BZZZRRRTTT! The robot lost all power and collapsed in a heap with a thud that rattled the entire building.

"Way to be Johnny-on-the-spot!" Rig laughed and Johnny reminded them all how much he hated that joke.

"Well that went tits up, didn't it?" Josh said as they gathered around the crumpled pile of robot that reeked of burnt plastic. "Let's give it another go, wanna lend a hand Rig?"

"Sure, I got nothin' else. Wanna jump in on this Naota?" Rig offered as everyone began setting up for another attempt.

"Try and convince me to say no, I dare you!" Naota challenged. "What can I do, how can I help? This's just so damn cool!"

"That's the exact words, and attitude, I want to hear." Rig smiled. "Okay, here's what you're gonna do…"

. . .

"What?! He did what?!" I asked George, he was just audible over the Ought-Too's idle. At least I was getting better at answering my phone. "They called a meetin'? Did they say why?" It had been only a week since Tommy and I fought M-M's bot at Dahl's, what could have gone wrong in that short of time?

"No, they didn't." George sighed. "But Mr. Voyze's the oldest name in the business, so his opinion carries some serious weight. If he's concerned, the rest of them are, and that means we are too."

"That and he's a grumpy old bastard that'd make the Devil flinch." I added, my hyperbole not far off from the truth.

"Yes, that too. So drop your patrol route and head for Midstate right now. Tommy's already there and I'm on my way."

"Roger that, be there ASAP, see you soon." I hung up and tapped the gear lever down to first. A conference of the oil and gas drillers and coal miners in the area had been called by the senior member; and G&R was expected to attend. Overwatch strives to make connections with local businesses and industries, and our station is no exception. The reason was because they employ a wide variety of people from all across the area, can come and go without suspicion and also interact with parties like trucking companies, fuel depots, part suppliers, restaurants, hotels, that whole chestnut. This's really important because people who work in places like these all know each other, they all see things, they talk to each other about things of great interest to us in Overwatch. But since we can't be everywhere to chase down every little lead or story, having a network of truckers, welders, waiters and waitresses, station clerks, delivery drivers, miners, surveyors, roughnecks, firefighters and police not on M-M's payroll, makes life a little more manageable. And if the bosses were calling us, then there was a serious problem.

I made it to our rendezvous without incident; the end of the Midstate Airport's runway. Midstate's smack in the middle of Black Moshannon State Forest and used to be the airstrip for Central Pennsylvania, until Penn State went and built their own. That actually worked in our favor because now that flights were few and far between, the only people that might be found at the runway's end were kids smoking dope, and us. So the chances of being eavesdropped or spied on were practically nil. Already a cluster of trucks had gathered by the fence.

"Evenin', Misters King, Welshman, Voyze and Solomon." I greeted the four miners from our area. "And of course, Mister Pike, Monsieur Chartier and Herr Dahl as well. What's the occasion?"

"A nightmare Rig, that's what." Tommy said, spitting a mouthful of tobacco juice. "Tell Rig what y'all just told us."

"Jeff, you recall zee conversation vee had zee other day, ja?" Mr. Dahl asked and I nodded. "Vell, zee man hast shown himself again, at all off our sites."

"Everyone's?" I asked and they all nodded.

"He's been making the rounds on all of us. We just finally connected the dots and realized we were talking about the same guy." Mr. King said. He was in his mid-40's, average height and build, with stubborn coal dust under his fingernails. He was never comfortable sitting in his office, always found deep in one of his mines at the face; a really chill, average Joe kind of guy. "Threatened me just this morning."

"All of us have been visited by this man, his style reminds me of the nineteen fifties." Mr. Solomon added. A teetotaler and non-smoker, his swarthy complexion, pointed goatee and shining dark eyes were unusual to the area. But his reserve and wisdom was not to be ignored. "And on the heels of Roman's collapse."

"I read about it in the paper, it was rather short in length, and substance. What I've heard from our sources isn't much better, what happened?" The article, a footnote buried on page three, was skimpy on the details and the only thing everyone I talked to knew was that they knew nothing.

"More like what didn't happen?" Mr. Welshman growled as he lit his pipe. A first-generation American, this miner was shorty, stocky and had a tendency to say exactly what was on his mind, damn the consequences. "Sand and ground glass in fuel and oil, food and water stocks poisoned, relief valves welded shut, tires slashed, workers intimidated and roughed up, emery dust on circuits, bolts loosened so machines rattle themselves apart, a nightmare indeed!"

"Does anyone know who the buyer was? Maybe they did all the sabotage to pick up Roman's on the cheap?"

"The only person that could tell us would be Roman." Mr. Voyze chimed in. He was the oldest member of the group, a fourth generation miner with coal dust in his veins, white hair on his head and a permanent half scowl on his face. "But he can't exactly do that now."

"Why's that?" I asked, a million possibilities all conjuring in my head, each worse than the last.

"He's dead Rig." Mr. Pike said simply, as if the former Marine was saying he expected it to rain. Two tours in Afghanistan and another in Iraq had hardened him into a serious, quiet man. He'd taken over the business when his dad retired. "The police found him in his house, brain all over the wall and his gun in his mouth."

"Holy shit! He shot himself?!" Of all the ideas I'd thought of; that was not one of them, or at least it was near the bottom of the list. At worst, I'd have thought he'd leave the state in disgrace.

"Well…he was shot, and with his own gun…" Mr. Pike went on slowly. "But…"

"But y'all ain't buyin' that, are yah?" They all shook their heads no. The lot of us trusted the police, especially state troopers (who had a history of lying about their business whenever they felt it convenient) about as far as we could throw 'em. Routinely bribing officers to keep them off your back was the most common, but trivial, of offences we in the area had to put up with.

"The police never mentioned it, but we talked to the neighbors." Mr. Chartier said. A Frenchman by ancestry, he was youngest and newest to the game. But this natural gas hunter, always impeccably dressed, was showing signs of great promise. "All of them swear they saw a man enter and leave the house, one that looks like…this." He took a photograph from his jacket and unfolded it, holding it out for George, Tommy and I to review.

"Oh no." George said, summing up and underscoring our feelings. The man had been captured on Mr. Chartier's office door camera. He stood at about six foot and one-ish inch tall, clocked in around two hundred pounds. He looked exactly like an FBI G-man with black slacks, polished black shoes, a trim four-piece suit, black leather gloves, smoked black sunglasses and a wide-brim fedora that hid his face from the camera's lens. In his right hand he grasped the handle of his briefcase, his left forearm had his coat folded over it.

"This's…this's incredible!" Tommy gasped, taking the picture to look more closely. "I've been at this twelve years gentlemen, and I have never even heard of a Man in Black being caught on camera!"

"Hold up. Man in Black?" Mr. Pike wasn't pleased with Tommy's reaction. "I don't like the sound of that."

"You shouldn't." George said, taking the photo from Tommy. "You all remember when I sat you down and told you about Medical Mechanica? Well, Men in Black are the enforcers and infiltrators of the M-M mafia. They are sent in when M-M wants something down with a little more finesse and secrecy, and when they can't micromanage a situation effectively from afar."

"So, that Medical Mechanica, really is real…" Mr. Welshman whispered to himself. We had brought these seven men into our circle out of necessity a few months ago. They had proven trustworthy thus far, even if they hadn't fully believed our story until that moment.

"And you think this one in particular…" George went on. "Orchestrated the sabotage and collapse of Roman's Mine, bought its land, assets and workers for pennies on the dollar, then murdered Roman to keep him quiet; framing it as the suicide of a ruined businessman?"

"What, you don't believe us?" Mr. Voyze demanded with his bulldog gruff.

"Oh no, quite the opposite." George remarked. "It sounds exactly like something a Man in Black would do."

"There's something else though…isn't there?" Tommy asked, squinting at each of the men in turn. "C'mon, out with it."

"The sabotage has started on all of us now." Mr. Solomon said, speaking for the group. "Our fear is that this, Man in Black, is behind it, and if we do not act swiftly, the rest of us will suffer similar 'suicides.' This is to say nothing of the livelihoods of our employees."

"Well…" George waffled, I could already tell he was hating being put on the spot. George had never wanted my Father's job, Station Chief.

"Well…what? George?"

"Well, I'm wanting real bad to do something…but we don't know for sure this's a real Man in Black." He said slowly and Tommy rolled his eyes in annoyance, throwing up his arms while the rest of us shifted nervously. "I mean, this could be someone from a rival company, some government spook…all kinds of things."

"But George! Our equipment is being wrecked, our men are scared to come to work!" Mr. King burst in.

"Unt vot off zee accident at mein site zee ozzer day?" Mr Dahl added his two cents. "Zis man visits me, zen there's a, a…monstrosity, tossing trucks like an angry child throwing toys?! A coincidence?!"

"He's right Carson. What's the matter, do you…"

"That's enough!" George snapped and was on his feet, off his truck's tailgate. "We are not the cops, we are not hitmen and certainly not your private detectives! You work for us, not the other way around. We will investigate what we deem fit to investigate. If you're having problems, my heart goes out to you, but unless you can give me better than a grainy photo, it's not Overwatch's problem. Do we understand each other?"

"…Yes, Mr. Carson." Mr. Solomon said after an uncomfortably long silence. "We understand. You cannot invest scarce resources without cause, and are not here to solve our personal problems, is that correct?"

"Yes Mr. Solomon. I'm glad we're all on the same page. Now, while you're all still here, our last item. What progress have you made on recruitment?" This was George's own project, his orders to carry out. I wasn't privy to the details, or really anything besides the tagline. But assignments for Station Chiefs have always been on a need-to-know basis, so that wasn't unusual. I just knew the general theme: Recruit, train and equip a locally-based response…and that's it, word for word.

"My foremen are all on board." Mr. Pike volunteered first. "Most of them were in the service, they didn't need much convincing."

"Their experience will be a great asset, and pray we never need to call on it. Mr. King…Mr. Solomon?" George cast around for the other six bosses to make their reports. "C'mon, don't hold out on me because I barked at you."

"All of our supervisors and foremen are in on it now George." Mr. Voyze said. "Some took a bit more convincing than others, but they came around. Now we just need to work on finding regular guys, right?"

"Right, I'm confident you'll surprise me next time we meet. Speaking of which, how about the same spot, same time, next week?" George was getting the meeting closed as it was starting to get dark.

"Unless something else happens in the meantime." Mr. Welshman predicted, tapping out his pipe on his boot-heel. "And, if you please, think on this, about the Man in Black. You know better'n anyone we're a hard bunch who don't scare easy. But lemme tell you this, and the rest of the guys'll back me up, this Man in Black…he's got us scared."

. . .

Monday morning. Work at eight, so up at six-thirty. Shower, jeans, old t-shirt that could get ruined. Breakfast, toast, fried eggs, microwaved sausage. Two ibuprofen for his already aching head, two more would follow at lunch. Steel-toe boots, two-liter thermos with water and ice cubes to beat the growing June heat, G&R official hat. Out the door, two hundred yards to work, Canti following like a seven foot tall shadow. Another day in the life of Naota Nandaba.

"Good morning Naota, headed for work?" Kamon asked as he packed his numerous bags to leave for Happy Valley, a camera and its accessories were now part of his equipment.

"Yeah Dad, same with you? Or are you running away to start a new life in California as a beach bum?" He smiled as Kamon closed the car trunk.

"Oh my, who are you and what have you done with my son? Was that a joke, humor?!" Kamon asked with amazement.

"Yes, I do happen to have a sense of humor." He sighed as Kamon shook his head in faux disbelief. "I even use it from time to time."

"Well I'm very glad. I think working for G&R's been good for you; Shigekuni's said you've made a friend there?"

"Yeah, Jeff Carson, you met his uncle and cousin our first day here. He's my supervisor, of sorts."

"Very good, very good. Before I go, how's your head? Anything new?"

"No, all's quiet. No activity."

"That much is a given fact, I meant the N.O. channel." Kamon kidded and Naota felt embarrassed for walking into such an easy joke. "We know there's no activity up there!"

"Oh ha-ha-ha! Very funny! Maybe you should try out a comedy club in Penn State while you're there." He took off his green work hat and ran his fingers through his now short-cropped hair. "Nothing since last week. George, Tommy and Rig all said it should be fine as long as I don't hit it on anything."

"Then be extra careful Naota." Kamon was in one of his rare moods of seriousness; when he appeared to Naota as a real adult. "I don't want anything bad happening to you, you and Shigekuni are all I have you know."

"I know, and I will, promise." He assured his father, wondering where this was coming from.

"That's what I wanted to hear. Now give your old man a hug." He gave Kamon a goodbye hug and watched his dad's sedan zoom on down the road; headed east. It was…different, having Kamon gone for the week, but he would survive. So he joined Canti on the road and both headed for work. He went feeling a little happier that morning and for once, Haruko wasn't even present in the darkest, deepest reaches of his mind.

"Howdy-do Naota!" Rig, with only a fifty yard walk, was waiting for him and finishing off his coffee. "How's the head? I know its Monday and everything."

"Attached, still functioning, and still hurts." He answered, holding in a yawn. "Anyway, good morning and thanks for asking. What're we doing today?"

"Well, George and Tommy and I had a pow-wow, and have decided you're not ready for crane work yet; especially with your concussion. For now, you're gonna help me 'round our property, learn some shop-type stuff too."
"Sounds like fun, what's up first?" He asked, following Rig inside the shop. Now that it was daytime, he could actually see the rest of its inside. Immediately to his right was a plate bending press, ten feet tall and the same wide. Rollers to put curves to steel plates were next, then two shear cutting presses that dwarfed the bending press. To his front were workbenches, covered in tools, spare and odd parts, replacement blades for grinders, gloves, packets of wire, soldering tools, cigarette packs, broken BIC lighters, Rig's brand of tobacco tins, welding masks and Skippy's coffee cups. Along the back wall were drill presses, milling machines, band and table saws, racks of welding equipment and associated tools. Then a collection of lathes ranging from small ones bolted to tabletops to a pair large enough to turn drive shafts on. Two bays with sufficient room and equipment to service a tractor trailer or coal truck each occupied most of the space in the center/left, and then toolboxes, racks of sockets, wrenches and other smaller tools were behind that. The left wall was a floor to ceiling rack of compressed gas tanks; oxygen, acetylene, argon, helium, carbon dioxide and hydrogen chief among them.

"S'cuse us, pardon me, COMING THROUGH!" Mike announced, steering his forklift and its payload of steel plates towards the shears.

"Careful man!" Rig warned, ducking under the plates overhead. "Your depth perception's gettin' worse by the minute."

"But nowhere as near as bad as your game with the ladies Rig!" Josh heckled while he directed Mike, making sure the plates didn't slam into the shear's housing.

"See the love flowin' around here?" Rig grinned, pulling tools off their racks as they worked their way through the shop. One thing Naota notice as absent was the ten-foot tall Medical Mechanica robot. They had worked on it a few days more during the week, making good progress. Its arm and leg repaired, it could now stand and move just as well as before Tommy and Rig had fought it. But they were still having problems with its behavior. As Naota looked around, he could see no sign that it had even been in the shop, even Josh's bank of computers had been moved somewhere out of sight. Then Rig's voice broke in, interrupting his thoughts. "Oh yeah? And how much's that internet datin' running you? Forty, fifty a month?"

"Don't you have something productive to do?!" Josh answered, vanishing behind the shears to pull the plates forward.

"Okay Naota, I got everything we need, walk with me." His tools gathered, Rig headed outside and down the Boneyard's road. "Today's gonna be a few simple lessons. First of which, how to break into that truck."

"Is that, you know, legal?" He asked as they approached their target: a dark red Mack dump truck.

"If it belongs to you, or someone asks you and it belongs to them…then yes. You have no idea how many job sites we've gone to and there's someone losing their shit 'cause he's locked his keys in the truck. 'Sides, we've long lost the keys for this one and its due for a function and maintenance check-up."

"So we gotta break in?" Naota followed Rig around to the passenger side.

"We gotta break in. Hop on up an' I'll show you how it's done." They both took a stand on the running board and Rig held up a thin sliver of metal about two feet long, two inches wide, with a hook and notch cut into the side near the bottom. "Know what this is?"

"Uhhh…a really bad ruler? I dunno."

"It's a Slim Jim, for unlocking car and truck doors. You slip 'er in like so…" Rig slid the Slim Jim between the window and weather stripping, down into the door. "Wiggle an' wriggle like so…hook the lockin' lever annnnd…lift up." Klunk. The lock button pushed up and Rig opened the door. "Tah-freakin'-dah."

"That's a pretty cool trick. I've heard of it, but never seen it done. Can I try?"

"Of course!" Rig relocked the door, slammed it shut and held out the Slim Jim. "All yours." Naota took position and started easing the bar into the door. "Slide 'er in there nice an' slow…" Rig drawled, then had himself a laugh.

"Oh ha-ha. Real cool, if you're in fourth grade. Okay…locking bar, locking bar…" He felt around, feeling for and finding the bar. Hooked, he slowly pulled up and heard that satisfying klunk.

"Very good, first try." Rig climbed into the cab, opening the driver's door. "Now you can do that the same with a coat hanger, or a wire if you're desperate. I've even seen people get real clever with shoelaces."

"I don't know if I'd have the patience for that. But hey, we got the door open, and you said we've lost the keys…so how do we start this thing? With a paperclip, some rubber bands and chewing gum?"

"We have arrived at the fun part. Hop into the captain's chair." Rig climbed down and Naota took the driver's seat; the ancient air-ride sagging under his weight. "Okay, you're gonna need some tools. Just toss 'em on the dash." Rig handed up a flat-head screwdriver, a wire stripping tool, parrot-beak wire cutters, a roll of electric tape and rubber gloves. "Now, use the screwdriver to gently pry off that plastic covering around the ignition and steering column, and the panel underneath it."

"Ooookay…trying not to break anything…" He worked the plastic panels free and laid them on the passenger seat. "Next?"

"See that big ole' bundle of wires?" He did. "What you're looking for is the Power an' Starter ones. Power outta be red…Starter should be brown." Rig took the chance to pack his lip and chew while Naota twisted his neck to look under the steering column. "Find 'em yet?" He asked with a full lip.

"Got 'em."

"Th-puh. Now, get your cutters and snip the Power ones from the cylinder, yep, right there. Strip a good inch off, then twist the copper together." As he did, the lights, displays and radio all came online, blasting him with painfully loud music. Once he'd turned the radio off, he asked what next. "Tape 'em together or they'll fall apart. Now, put your gloves on."

"Why the gloves? I didn't get shocked with the first wires."

"Because these ones have a live current, and will shock you, and it will hurt, a lot! Foot on the clutch, is the lever in neutral?" He pushed the clutch to the floor and checked the gear selector to ensure it was free-moving. "Once you've cut the Starter wires free and stripped them, twist the ends together when you're ready. Be sure to give it some gas when it starts so it doesn't stall. Okay, let's see if it'll go." Naota took a deep breath, let it out and tapped the wires together. There was a small spark and the engine started to turn. Surprised at the suddenness of the starter engaging, he jumped, let the wires fall apart and the engine fell silent.

"Almost, try 'er again." Rig encouraged. He touched the wires again, this time pinching them tightly together. The engine started up with a few pushes on the gas, settling into its gruff idle. "Heeey! There yah go! We'll have to start callin' you Niko Bellic eh? 'Kay, tape over those two wires so they don't shock you; I'll be right up."

"Wait, aren't you driving?" Rig had sat in the passenger seat, pulled his door shut and propped his knee-high, multi-buckled and steel-shod boots on the dash. "I don't know how to drive a truck."

"Then you's gonna learn. Yah know the basic concept of stick-shift?" Rig asked, spitting out the window while he waited for an answer.

"Clutch in and off the gas, move the lever, on gas and out clutch?"

"Yeeeah…that's close 'nough for government work. Same here, 'cept you've got different ranges. You'll start in low, go to the top of that, back to one, but in mid by that little lever there, then back to one and high range."

"That is a stupid amount of shifting." Naota said, trying to remember the gear pattern. "So Low-Low first?" He put the lever far left and back, feeling it drop into place.

"Mmm-hmm. Now ease off the clutch and ease on the gas, whenever you're ready." Naota began easing off the clutch, gently pressing the gas pedal, afraid to take it too quickly. Then entire truck rumbled, the engine shuddered and shut off.

"What?! What happened? Did I break something?"

"Nope. You stalled out. Too much clutch, not enough gas. Un-tape your Starter wires and start 'er up again."

"Sorry…I've just never driven a car even…" He explained, fiddling with the Starter wires. A small spark and the truck roared to life again. "Okay, let's try this again."

"Feel free to take your time. We've got allll day for you to get it right." Rig said, possibly as a promise, or a joking threat. "Clutch out, gas on…" WrrroohhOOOAAMMMM! Not wanting to stall again, he pushed twice as hard on the gas and the engine revved louder, belching smoke out its stacks. "Oh-whoa! Easy Seabiscuit, too much gas, too much!"

"Sorry!" At Rig's warning, Naota eased off, only to have the truck stall again. "…Goddammit."

"Sucks don't it?" Rig sympathized. "Let's try again, third time's the charm." This time he got started, in gear and moving without trouble. "Okay, first gear!" Rig ordered. Clutch, ease off gas, up and slightly right, on gas, off clutch. They were now moving only slightly above a crawl. "Second!" They were still at a snail's pace, but the transitions were coming easier. "Take us left, out to the runway and gimme third."

"This isn't so bad." Naota said as they slowly trundled through the Boneyard. He got into fourth, was ready to make the turn and go back to first, but in mid gear, when Rig ruined everything.

"Good…good…STOP!" He yelled and Naota slammed on the brakes, causing the truck to lurch as it stopped. And, in his panic, he forgot the clutch and the truck stalled out again.

"What the hell was that for?!"

"You gotta be able to stop in these things." Rig explained, completely serious. "What if some little kid runs out in front of you? Squish…goes little Billy."

"…Fair enough. Oh, damn. We've stalled again."

"We've got alllllll day man…alllll day long…"

. . .

"In what police are calling 'brazen foolishness', a local high school student has been suspended after he was caught pouring bleach into a classmate's fuel tank; in an attempt to sabotage it for a so-called 'revenge prank.'" The newscaster reported, then jumped right into the weather without missin' a beat. Naota had finally gotten the hang of driving stick-shift. By lunchtime he was doing doughnuts with that dump truck. We'd spent the rest of Monday practicing on a few other cars and trucks around the shop, breakin' into 'em, hot-wirin' and how to drive all different sorts. He, like every sane person, hates stick-shift on the column the most. It was proving to be a stumbling block, but he caught onto everything else with surprising ease. But now that I'd taught him how to get into cars and drive them around…it was time to show him how to kill them.

"Ain't that crazy? Dude puttin' bleach in the gas tank?" Naota and I were having lunch in the shop, watching the news on 'the company's' official Panasonic TV; it was older than both of us combined.

"Wouldn't that ruin the engine?" He asked, the warning signs of interest starting to show. "Then again, I suppose that was the point."

"It could, given enough time. If you want to truly destroy a car, there's much better ways."

"Like what?"

"Well…tell you what. We have a junker we're plannin' on sending to the scrap yard anyway." I finished off my sandwich and turned off the TV. "Help me grab some stuff and we'll have some fun with it. Here, hold this." I picked up a spare cardboard box from the pile next to the grease and fluids racks. We have to order axle grease by the box, as many vehicles we have that need it. "Okay…gonna need some of these." A small bag of nails. "Screwdriver…" Into the box she goes. "Wire cutters, bottle of bleach, bag of oil absorbent powder….annnd a funnel. That'll do us."

"All this to kill a car?" He looked into the box. "Seems a bit much."

"Not unless you're going to destroy it, so that it'll never be driven again. Then this's just a good start. Alright, let's go meet our victim." We walked around to the far end of the shop, the half that functions as our garage. Just inside, next to the wall, was a '94 Grand Am. The paint was peeling, it was rusted to hell and back, the plastic molding flaking off and faded…God I hated that thing. Why did we even have it? Whose genius idea was it to bring it home? Probably mine, now that I think about it, when I thought I was going to make a living racing stock cars. Gotta have dreams. Anyway…

"Yuck." Naota summed that car up in one word. "Okay, yeah. This car needs to die. It'll be a mercy killing. Why is it here anyway?"

"I think it was a barter for some work we did, or a trade for something else. There was probably a plan to use it as a stock car…"

"But then Fiero?"

"Fiero. Either way, we got ripped off with this thing."

"Then let's get your money's worth. What first?"

"First, we gotta get into it."

"Let me guess, no keys? One second…" Naota took the Slim Jim from the box and in five Mississippi's, had the doors unlocked.

"You're getting scary good at that, yah know?" I said and popped the hood.

"Hey, everyone's gotta have a talent."

"Too true. So this's actually pretty simple. What, fundamentally, makes a car work?"

"Uh…gas for power, wheels for bearing and traction…" He got half on his first guess.

"And oil for lubrication, and water or antifreeze for cooling. So, if we attack any of those four legs, the table cannot stand, follow?"

"Sounds right. So what first, bleach in the tank?"

"Nope. Bleach in the tank doesn't really do much. However…" I unscrewed the oil fill cap. "Puttin' it in the oil will really ruin it. The bleach'll basically thin out the oil and also start to eat at everything it touches. It'll burn out the engine in a few dozen miles. Go ahead, start pouring." I handed him the half gallon jug and the funnel, getting an 'Are you sure this's okay?' look in return. "They're gonna put it in the crusher anyway, so anything we do to it is moot."

"In that case, bottoms up." He poured in the bleach and recapped the oil fill port. "Quarter of the way there."

"So oil's down. Left is tires, fuel and coolant. Fuel and coolant, we can actually get at the same way, with a little help from this." I plunked the bag of oil spill powder on the car's roof.

"Oil spill powder?" He didn't look convinced.

"Oil spill powder."

"Really?" He didn't sound convinced either.

"Really."

"The stuff that's basically over-priced kitty litter?"

"The very same." I grinned.

"Show me."

"Okay, so this stuff is, basically like you said, over-priced clumping kitty litter. When it contacts fluids, it'll suck it up and harden into a solid brick. You've seen the guys use this a few times in the shop." I explained and used my pocketknife to slit the bag open. Then I unscrewed the radiator's fill cap. "Get a little bit of this into your lines and they'll clog like Ronald McDonald's arteries. Here, I'll hold the funnel and you pour."

"So the antifreeze'll clog up the lines, no flow means no cooling, and the engine roasts. Got it. But…" He poured in half and I stopped him, we needed the other half yet. "Don't fuel tanks nowadays have like, a mesh or filter or something to prevent you from siphoning or putting stuff in the tank?"

"That's why we have this." I held up the screwdriver, a stout, foot and a half long unit. "Here, put this in there and hammer on it 'till you break through." He really gave that anti-siphon mesh a good whack, then filled the tank with the rest of the oil powder.

"Okay, tires are all that's left." He walked 'round the car, trying to figure out how to best attack them. I held back, letting him think it through. Can't hold his hand for everything you know. "Heeyy…hand me four of those nails, and one of the flaps from the box." I ripped off the chunk and handed it over with four, two inch long nails. He ripped the cardboard into four smaller squares, then drove a nail through the center of each one. Then, he placed each nail tip-up just in front of the tires. "There, that'll do it."

"Very good, the cardboard holds the nail upright, so when the car pulls forward, the nail will go cleanly into the tire and won't fall over. Nice!"

"Plus you can set it and leave it, like a mouse trap." He added. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere near someone's car when they find out what I've done to it."

"You and me both! Speaking of that, lunch's over and we need to make a run for supplies. We'll leave the car for whoever gets stuck with taking it to the scrap yard."

"I'm sure they'll love that…" He said and I started for one of our work trucks, expecting him to follow, but I didn't hear his boots crunching behind me.

"What're you doing?"

"Leaving my mark." He explained, drawing a large 'P!' on the windshield's dust. "That alien woman I told you about, had this symbol on her Vespa. Trouble always seemed to follow her, so I figure it's fitting to leave it here."

"Hmmm…that makes sense. Wonder what that symbol means, if anything?"

"Who knows?" He shrugged, finishing the symbol and admiring his handiwork. "Anyway, shouldn't we be going? I can't imagine your Uncle being happy with us trashing this car, even if it is going to the crusher."

"Uhhh…yeah. Good point." I agreed and we walked to a work truck to start our errands. I wasn't worried though, George wouldn't mind in the least about sacrificing that Grand Am. After all, what's one beater car when training someone wanted dead by the bane of the Galaxy? Chump change, that's what.

. . .

Baboooooomm… Babooommmm… Bah-bah-bah-booooommm… It was a war, surely it was. The shots had started five minutes before, a few pops on and off. But now they were echoing up from Carson property and into Naota's living room. What Rig and his family were up to on that Saturday afternoon was anyone's guess, but Naota was determined to find out. Battling his common sense, he tied his boots, put on his G&R hat and headed on down the hill to find the source of the racket.

"I knew it was you!" He said, finding Rig at the end of G&R's Boneyard. "What the hell're you doing out here? I can hear whatever it is from my house."

"Target practice! What else, 'cept for huntin' Commies maybe…just kidding!" Rig laughed, waving Naota around the white toolbox truck to a table containing, what appeared to Naota, his arsenal. "Ever shot a gun?"

"Besides airsoft you mean?" He asked, finding himself unblinkingly staring at the guns laid on the first card table. There were five of them, two pistols, a shotgun, a long rifle and the only one he could name: an AK-47.

"You mean those plastic, made in China toys? Yeah, 'sides them." Naota heard about half the words, but managed to shake his head. "Hey, Earth to Naota…"

"Is all this…legal?" He found himself asking that a lot when he hung out with Rig, now that he thought about it. He looked over at Rig who was giving him his best mad-hatter grin. "I mean, that's an AK-47. The bad guys in all the movies and games use them."

"As they should, it's actually a great gun. And yes, of course it's all legal! You're in the Good Ole' U-S of A man! We have this beautiful thing called the Second Amendment: A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the People to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed." Rig recited with a genuinely passionate zeal. This afternoon already promised to be interesting.

"What does that make you then, with this, arsenal?" He just then noticed the metal cans of ammunition and a pile of what looked like some form of combat gear piled next to it. "A freedom fighter or something?"

"Nah! Just your average Joe, exercising his constitutional rights. Hey, since you've moved here, that includes you too. Wanna learn how to shoot, or pick politics all day?"

"Yeah, yeah sure. So…what're we shooting first?"

"First, we gotta get the boring part out of the way. Rules." Rig said, killing half the fun without firing a shot.

"Rules…? Oh Rig, stick a needle in my why don't you?" He joked, trying to use some humor to relieve his own tension. Never having been even within arm's reach of a real gun, he was feeling his nerves.

"Pain, I know, but necessary. First, whenever you encounter a gun, like these on the table or when someone hands you one, always assume it's loaded. No matter what, for this and all of these rules. Second is to make sure your gun is always pointed in a safe direction at all times."

"Even if it's…" He started.

"Even if it's unloaded, yes. YOU may know it's unloaded, but the other guy may not. Besides, no one likes having a muzzle flashed in their face. So basically, never point the barrel at anything you ain't willing to destroy."

"No Mulligans once the trigger's pulled huh?"

"Exactly. Speakin' of that, Rule Three. Always keep your finger off that trigger until you're ready to shoot. And last, you must be one hundred and ten percent sure of your target and what's behind it. Bullets have that nasty habit of going through things, even metal plate."

"Sounds simple enough." He was still eyeballing that AK in his periphery.

"Then repeat 'em back to me." Rig challenged, standing square to Naota with his arms crossed.

"Always assume the gun's loaded, pointed in a safe direction, keep my finger off the trigger and be aware of what's behind my target."

"You pay 'ttention. I like that, you'll go far man. Okay, then let's get started. Normally, I'd give you a twenty-two to start on, but these are more fun…"

"A twenty-two? What's that?"

"Oh damn, I'm sorry. I'm just assuming stuff again. Since you've been makin' love eyes at it this whole time, we'll start with the AK." Rig picked up the gun, took out the magazine and opened the bolt to show it was empty. "Here, I showed you it was empty, so go ahead and get a feel for it." He said, taking a small scope off its mount, setting that on the table and handing over the gun. Naota took the AK-47 from Rig and nearly dropped it, unaware of how heavy it would feel; easily seven or eight pounds. "Heavy ain't it?"

"A little, for not being all that big." Rig chuckled and after letting Naota look it over a bit, took the gun back.

"And it's considered a lighter gun, think on that. Now here's another boring part, but none the less important; we'll get through it together." Naota leaned against the truck as Rig cleared his throat, then began his lecture. "Alrighty. This's an AK-47, or Avtomat Kalishnikova as the Russkies call it. It shoots a thirty caliber round, caliber means zero point three zero of an inch across. So, a fifty cal is half an inch across. More popularly, this round is also called a seven point six two by thirty nine millimeter, with seven six two being how big across the bullet is in millimeters and thirty nine how long the entire cartridge, bullet and all, is. Now, this AK's had some work done to it, so it can take twenty or thirty round double-stack magazines. Here's one, take a look."

"What's double-stack?" He asked, turning the magazine filled with green hulled shells, the copper jacketed bullets shining in the sun.

"It's how the bullets sit in the magazine. Single stack ones sit right on top of each other, while double stack ones are slightly offset. That way, you can fit the same number of rounds in a shorter mag, takes up less space. See? That part under the bullets is called the follower, it follows the bullets up. There's a spring under it that keeps pressure on it to feed the bullets up through the magazine." Finished with the magazine, Rig took it back and laid it on the table, picking up the AK again. "This part's kinda involved, so stop me if I'm going too fast. These are the basic parts, pretty standard for assault rifles. Here's your barrel, front and rear sights, this's a mount for its scope, the forestock or foregrips, bolt, the firing pin, breach and chamber, the adjustment for the rear sight, magazine well and release, fire selector lever that doubles as your safety too, trigger, trigger guard, the scope itself, a little four power with a holographic display, annnd…buttstock. Nothin' fancy about it except for the scope." Rig went over the AK's features, pointing them out and opening the bolt so Naota could look inside. "You get all that?"

"I…think so? There isn't going to be a quiz on all this, is there?" Rig roared with laughter at the idea and shook his head no. "Good! So how's it actually work, like internally? I've seen the movies and played some games, but that's about it."

"First, you put your mag in like so, see how it has that lip on it? You have to catch that on the magazine well, or when you let go of the magazine, it'll fall to the ground, and you don't want that. Very embarrassing. Then you pull back on the bolt handle, see how the other rounds are pushed up when the bolt grabs the first one? On the bolt's face is this little claw called an extractor. It'll hold the round in place, then pull it out of the chamber when its been fired. Then, just let the bolt go forward on its own…" Rig let the bolt go with a loud Ch-Chik! "Now we're loaded!"

"Okay. Now, I know about the primer, then gunpowder turning to gas and pushing the bullet down the barrel, but how does it work for, like, semi or full auto?"

"This gun has a gas-piston system. See this tube on top of the barrel? That gas from the powder gets tapped from a little hole in the barrel, then hits a piston rod, in this tube. That piston pushes back the bolt, it and the extractor kicks out the empty round, hits the return spring just under this metal covering, then picks up a new round from the magazine and everything resets. On full auto, this gun'll do that entire operation six hundred times…a minute."

"Now that's firepower. Does this one do full-auto?"

"…No." Rig said after a scarcely noticeable pause, like he was catching himself from saying something he shouldn't. Maybe he was just catching his breath with all the talking he was doing, and Naota left it at that. "There's a part in here that catches the hammer after it fires, keeping it from hitting the firing pin. Now, if I were to commit a felony, and file down that little part a few millimeters, it would fire full-auto. See how stupid gun laws even here are? Anyway, this gun will fire as fast as you can pull the trigger. Wanna try your hand?"

"You bet I do, let's go already!" This was a chance to shoot an AK-47, the gun of resistance fighters the world over. How could he pass this up?!

"Turn 'round then and face downrange." Rig directed and Naota found himself facing an obstacle course of old machinery, cars and plywood and steel walls with purpose-cut slots in them. There was also an army of silhouette targets scattered throughout the two hundred yard long course. Some were steel plate cutouts and others paper on cardboard sheets and wooden frames. "Put your feet a little wider than shoulder width apart…good. Stand sideways to the targets, so the gun'll be across your body, not at a ninety degree angle."

"Like this?" Naota repositioned as directed.

"Yep. Okay, here's your gun." Rig handed him the AK, sans magazine. "AHEM! Are we forgetting something?" He reminded and Naota sheepishly pulled back the bolt to check the chamber and make sure it was unloaded. "Thank you. Ready up, right hand here, left hand here, no, yes, no, there, stop moving! There. Put the stock in that little pocket of your shoulder, good. Get your cheek down and welded onto the stock. That way, when the gun goes off, your body will move with it and the recoil will feel much less. See your sights?"

"Uh-huh…" He grunted with his cheek mashed onto the laminated wood stock. Already he was starting to feel the unaccustomed weight pulling on his arms.

"Line up the front sight in the middle of the back on, and so that the top of the front is level with the back one. Got that?"

"Yeeep."

"Okay, hold still." Rig reached under the gun to lock in a magazine, over to push down the selecter lever to semi and finally pull back and release the bolt. "Weapon is now hot. Pick a target…how about that hanging plate at thirty yards?" Rig suggested a chest-high steel disk, hanging by a chain from one of the steel plate walls. "Slow your breathing, in, hold it, out, fire. Squeeze the trigger with the last pad of your finger, fire when your lungs are empty; the shot should be a pleasant surprise." Naota resettled his hold and cheek weld on the gun, slowing his breathing and gently pressing the trigger. Squeeze…squeeze…BANG! If fired and there was an echoing Pling! As the bullet hit its target.

"Beginner's luck." Rig said, but nodded in approval. "Again." Naota lined up on the plate…squeeze…squeeze…BANG!...Pling!

"Again." BANG!...Pling!

"Again." BANG!...Pling! "Again." BANG!...Pling! Rig ordered him to fire faster after each shot, increasing the tempo until he was firing a shot every second.

"Oh, I'm out." The trigger pulled and clacked uselessly with no round in the chamber to fire.

"Here, fresh mag. Load it up and we'll find you a new target." Rig handed him another magazine and took the empty one. Naota reloaded himself and brought the AK up to his shoulder. "New targets. That row of plates fifty yards out looks good. Hit 'em and they'll fall over. Fire when ready." As Naota engaged the row of steel disks, he found his face tugging into a smile. The recoil wasn't anywhere near as bad as he thought it'd be. The AK thudded with gentle shoves into his shoulder. He could feel the piston snapping back and the internal workings cycle with a sharp, metallic clack at each shot, the bolt unlocking to eject the old shell and bring in a new one. Spent shells spun through the air, their metallic green hulls sprinkling into a growing pile on the ragged shale. It was an immensely satisfying feeling to hear the clang of a successful hit, each time a bullet knocked over a plate. Once he ran out of rounds, Naota turned to Rig, who was having himself a good laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"You man. I know the look on your face well. You've got stars for eyes and look like you've discovered the greatest thing since canned beer."

"It is! I had no idea it was this much fun, shooting. Can we really do this whenever we want?"

"Technically, no. We're too young to actually own guns, gotta be eighteen for rifles and shotguns; twenty one for pistols. If anyone ever asks, these guns all belong to George…understand?" Rig asked with a serious edge to his tone and Naota nodded that they were on the same page. "Good. But yeah, if you're willin' to help cover the cost of ammo and help me clean the guns after we're done, then we can shoot whenever you want."

"Awesome. Thank you, this's too cool. Uhm…do you think we could…" He nodded at the other four guns still on the table.

"Oh, I see. You've had your free first hit, and are comin' back to your dealer for your next fix?" Rig teased, taking back the AK, putting it down and picking up the long rifle. "Of course we can. Here, get that bucket, we'll use it for a chair. Okay, now there's a story behind this gun…"

Through the course of the afternoon, Naota learned the operation, uses and a little of the history behind the rest of Rig's guns. Pistols were for muggers, carjackers and pickpockets. Shotguns were for trespassers and home invasions. Rifles were for hunting and if you had to 'reach out and touch someone.' Finally, 'AK-47's and AR-15's are for people who try to take your guns away from you...elected or otherwise.'

The long rifle was a 0.30-06 Remington 760. It was a five shot, magazine fed and pump action rifle with a ten power scope that allowed it to 'hammer nails at four hundred yards'. Rig had inherited it from his grandfather and said Remington 760's were the 'standard issue' hunting rifle of Pennsylvania; everyone and their brother had one. Next was another Remington, an 870 Express shotgun. It boasted a full stock with an added pistol grip, a rack along the receiver that held five extra 12-guage shells, and an extended magazine tube to contain seven plus one rounds of intimidation. The first pistol was a Ruger P90, a blued, heavy fireball of 0.45 caliber slugs. While he liked the feel of the gun in his hands, the ease of its operation and the power of 0.45 ACP, Naota had yet to get over the pistol's recoil. Lastly was another Ruger, a GP100 with a four inch barrel. Of all the guns Rig had, he seemed to hold that stainless-steel, rubber hogue-gripped and 0.357 magnum chambered revolver in the highest and most precious regard. He has hesitated to let Naota shoot it, taking a full five seconds of consideration to pass it over; immediately taking it back once Naota had emptied the only cylinder he shot out of it.

"Now, I have to ask Rig." He pointed to the olive drab colored pile of gear next to the truck. "What exactly, is that?"

"Oh, this? It's my setup. Here, try it on." Rig hefted the pile of straps, pouches and webbing and buckled the entire affair onto Naota. "Whaddyah think? Cool huh?"

"I feel like a walking Call of Duty." The, set-up, as Rig had put it, was a full-bodied loadout. They went through everything on it, from the ground up.

A set of knee pads were secured with two buckles each to his legs. Next was a low holster on his right leg, secured with two buckle straps to his thigh, then a vertical strap buckled into his belt. That holster held the Ruger P90 and two spare magazines. A pouch on his left leg, secured in the same manner, held two P90 magazines, and revolver speed loaders. It also had four baseball-sized pouches on the outside of it, but they were empty. Next up was a belt that held up the holster and leg pouches, with two MORE P90 magazines and revolver speed loaders, the AK-47's bayonet because why not, two canteens, a multi-tool, the GP100 in a cross-draw holster at the small of his back, and two empty soup can sized pouches, one on each side of the buckle. All of this on the belt and itself, was held up with a set of suspenders. Over the suspenders and above the belt was a vest that dropped over his head and secured under his arms with vice tight Velcro pads. The back-bottom-left of the vest had a bag attached to it called a drop-pouch, for spent magazines. Right of that, in the low-middle was a kit containing more supplies: batteries, scissors, tape, gloves, goggles, matches, a lighter, fire starting materials, folding saw, a headlamp, and an Alpenflage patterned poncho. On the low-right side of the vest's back was a large medical kit that could treat anything from cuts and burns to chemical exposure and sucking chest wounds. The front of the vest carried eight AK-47 magazines, a large Buck 119 knife strapped in a draw-down position, a small cleaning kit for the guns and ever more pockets. They were filled with a pen, pencil, paper, maps of Pennsylvania, Clearfield and Centre counties, rope, a flashlight, compass, bandages, industrial safe sunglasses, an emergency road flare, two glowsticks, a small GPS, and the components for a radio complete with headset, transmitter and battery pack.

"Holy shit Rig, this weighs a ton!" He said, trying to walk around, and failing to get more than a few steps without stumbling. All the extra weight and material hanging off him made just walking difficult and physically awkward. "And…are these steel plates in this thing?" He rapped his knuckles on his chest, hearing and feeling something densely solid. There was a plate on his chest, back and even one under each arm from his armpits down to his hips.

"Partly. It's a sammich of boron-carbide and Kevlar layers, then a final quarter inch steel plate as a backer. It's heavy, but I need some weight to run around with during practice, so when I run the course, I feel lighter."

"Course, what course?" Naota asked, beginning to peel the layers of equipment off.

"Three-Gun. It's a competition where you run an obstacle course, but with three different guns and shooting at targets along the way. There's different classes, I'm in one where you have to carry all your stuff with you, which is why I have to haul around so much crap. But everyone will carry a rifle, a shotgun and a pistol, three guns. You're timed, time gets tacked on for misses, and whoever runs the course the fastest, wins."

"Is that what all this is then?" Naota pointed to the maze of walls, junk and targets. "Your training course?"

"Uh-huh. Hey, we're almost out of ammo for today, but I have enough left for one run-through. Wanna put the gear back on and give it a shot?" Rig offered, holding out the vest.

"I'll let you practice. You've let me shoot a lot of ammo today, that's enough for one afternoon. I'll watch this one and maybe try it next time." He compromised.

"Okie-dokie, suit yerself. Lemme get gussied up, here, you can time me." Rig donned his gear, hooked the AK-47's sling onto a strap on his vest, holstered the P90 on his leg, the GP100 at the small of his back, and handed Naota the shotgun. "Carry this for me to the second stage wouldja? There'll be a table with a blanket on it, just lay the shotgun there when we reach it, okay?"

"Sure thing." Naota slung the 870 onto his shoulder and turned on the timer Rig had handed him. "Ready whenever you are, do you want like, a countdown or something?"

"A three, two, one, beep, that'd be perfect." Rig agreed after double checking all of his gear was in place. He stood with his arms slack at his side, AK hanging freely by its sling. "Start me off."

"Three…two…one…" Naota counted and hit START on the timer. It chimed with a high pitched BEEEEEP! And Rig went into action.

First up were three silhouette targets at thirty yards, peeking from behind a stack of barrels, a junked truck and a water tank. Rig put two rounds into each while walking forward at a brisk pace; rolling his feet to help keep the gun level and on target. He reached the targets, with Naota right behind him, and turned left to put three rounds into a surprise target to their right, next to an oil barrel. Rig turned on the safety with a hard clack, then sprinted thirty yards to a steel plate wall with narrow slits cut into it at haphazard angles. He started with the top one, at chest height but cut at a forty five degree angle. Rig slid the barrel through so the fore stock rested on the metal, and fired at the first of seven silhouettes; these made of steel plate. BANG-BANG!...PING-PING!...BANG-BANG!...PING-PING! He fired in hammered pairs, then dropped to his knee to fire through the next slit; this one cut at the opposite angle. Four more shots, four more pings. Then he stood, swapping hands to shoot lefty around the left side of the wall; four more shots, then the same to the right. The safety clacked back on and he sprinted to their right and forward, sliding behind the cover of a sedan's rusted hulk. He lay on his side, firing under the car at a series of steel plates forty yards out. He missed three shots out of twelve, then rolled over to his opposite side. The first magazine expended, it was placed in the drop pouch and a full one pulled from his vest. Reloaded, he fired six more times, then rose to a crouch to engage the same targets from behind the car's trunk; still left handed. Standing and switching hands again, he ran around the car and into another thirty yard sprint. He turned right at a plywood wall, firing four shots at a silhouette nearly ten yards away behind a stack of cinder blocks. He then fired through windows cut into the plywood walls, aiming at targets easily seventy yards out. With his misses starting to accumulate, he reloaded and completed the stage, running right to the end of the wall and turned left. He dropped to his stomach upon turning the corner, firing the rest of his magazine at three more targets waiting in ambush.

"Have that shotgun ready!" Rig ordered as they ran another ten yards to a card table, already stocked with shotgun ammunition. Naota laid the shotgun down and sprang back out of the way. Rig put his AK on the table, ripping off the AK magazine pouches with a crackle of Velcro and slapped on a new patch that carried fifty shotgun shells in neat rows of ten. He then clipped the shotgun's sling into the same strap the AK had hung from. Seven loose shells were already on the table and Rig loaded them while on the move, running twenty yards to another wall with the precut slits. He repeated the process from the first wall and reloaded as he ran to the next station. Two targets became visible along the way and he engaged them while on the move, then two more were found behind an old set of caterpillar tracks.

A series of walls clustered like hallways were next. Rig worked his way through the rooms quickly; making sure to check his corners at each new doorway. Buckshot rang against steel targets and the building was cleared. For the last thirty yards, Rig slid the shotgun around so it hung across his back and drew his P90. The targets were much closer now, twenty yards to twenty feet, but appeared with alarming frequency. Two left, two front, two right, advance, one middle, one to their immediate left, and then a last row of eight inch plates. Now Rig's shots were starting to go wide, one round even hitting the dirt in front of the plate's rack. But he cleared them all, holstered his P90 and rushed forward. At the end of the plate rack was a 100-lb tube of sand.

"Oh fuckity-fuck-fuck, I hate this part…" Rig swore as he squatted to heft the sandbag onto and across his shoulders. "Jesus Harold Christ, this's heavy!" He stood with shaky knees and began a brisk walk…back to where they had initially started. Puffing, huffing, red-faced, dripping sweat and swearing profusely, Rig made it to the truck and shooting bench. He dropped the sandbag with a weight indicating thump, but wasn't finished.

He had dropped the sandbag onto a pressure plate, something off to the side Naota had missed earlier. From behind a low cinder block wall, right next to the hill, one last silhouette sprang up; released by the pressure plate. Rig, in one fluid motion, pivoted ninety degrees to his right, drew his GP100 and fired all six shots into the silhouette; completing the course.

"Time!" He wheezed, doubled over after holstering his revolver. "How'd I do?"

"Five minutes, thirty five point six seconds." Naota read the timer. "Is that a good time…a bad one?"

"It's…okay. Could be better." Rig said, taking off his vest and unbuckling his equipment belt. "It's a lot better than when I first started."

"How long was that?"

"Nine forty five. The sandbag part always gets me. It's supposed to represent your wounded buddy and you have to carry him to safety." Rig walked over to the last silhouette and waved Naota over to take a look. Upon closer inspection, there were actually two torsos and heads painted onto the steel plate. The front one was white and offset a foot to the right. The second one, behind it, was red; mostly covered by the white body. "This's 'sposed to simulate a hostage. You're trying to hit the red guy, and not the white one."

"Looks like you shot the hostage then." He traced the bullet's pockmark on the paint, on the white silhouette's right shoulder.

"What? Lemme see." Rig leaned in for a better look. "Bah, we can write that one off."

"But you shot him, right in the shoulder!"

"Exactly, the shoulder. They'll live, it's just a flesh wound. How about this, save some money so Tommy can buy us the ammunition, and you can run the course; and not shoot the hostage."

"Sounds fair to me." He agreed, already excited.

"Nice, in the meantime, help me get this stuff squared away. Now we get to go take the guns apart, the real fun part."

. . .

"Nice shootin' there Tex." Rig commented while Naota fought the urge to pass out. He had just finished his first run of Rig's 3-Gun course, eleven minutes flat. By the time he had reached the final hostage target, his hands shook so badly he was barely able to draw the GP100. "And you gave me shit for shooting the hostage."

"Hey, this one was survivable…probably." He pointed at the pockmark on the right side of the hostage's head. "I just shot his ear off. Think of it this way, they can dress up as Van Goh for Halloween."

"WHAT?!" Rig shouted, cupping his hand to his ear.

"I said they could…"

"WHAT?! Sorry, I'm a tad deaf after some hot-shot kid blew my ear off!"

"Oh shut up." Naota sighed as Rig cackled.

"Alright, alright. Reload and ready up; we'll run it again but focus on aiming this go-around; no timer. Ready? Three…two…one…GO!"

. . .

June came and went by in a blur, giving way to July. It was a time with little idleness, that being the Devil's workshop and all. Work at G&R ensured that Naota was thoroughly occupied during the day. And, if it wasn't work directly, Rig was teaching him something either work-related or just for fun. Over the month, Naota's resume grew at an exponential rate. He learned MIG, TIG and arc welding, cutting with a torch and plasma cutter, running the presses, shears and machinery in the shop, could turn parts on a lathe accurate to one thousandth of an inch. The controls of bulldozers, excavators, trucks and cars of all shape, make or model were no longer unfamiliar, nor were the handlebars of dirt bikes and four wheelers. Talking over the radios while out on jobs with Rig and Tommy, whether HAM, CB or private channels was another skill he had picked up. The Fourth of July festivities had brought an all-day extravaganza of explosions. They created all manner of bombs to destroy old microwaves, a mini-fridge and junk from the Boneyard. Recipes for the dastardly devices were taken from Rig's Bible: a printed-off volume called The Anarchist's Cookbook. Match-sugar charge and cast iron tube pipe bombs lit with a simple fuse, pressure cookers with black powder and…the king of them all…Tannerite. Between the two of them and help from the rest of G&R staff, they built a, well, device, that weighed fifty pounds and was activated by a stick of TNT of dubious origins, and a sacrificial Nokia cell phone. That '94 Grand Am had no idea what had it it...and tossed it ten feet into the air.

He had also gotten much faster at running Rig's 3-Gun course, even with him changing the layout week to week. He discovered the rest of G&R participated in the course on Sundays, each with their own customized loadout and gear. The only similarity was that they all carried an AK-47, a 12-guage shotgun, and a Ruger P90. They said they were 'hoping to put together a competitive team someday.' In the meantime, Naota and Rig started supplementing their 3-Gun workout with morning and evening runs, using the home-built gym tucked into the corner of the shop. Push-ups, sit-ups, bench, squat, dead lift and pull-ups were the basic staples, coupled with more running up and down the emergency runway the Carson's maintained for the county; a half mile of bulldozed rock gouged into the mountainside.

They had also gotten Rig's second, well, fourth, maybe even fifth-hand, '78 Bronco up and running. With the last of the rust ground off, Rig had painted the main body the same bright orange as his Ought-Too, and the removable cap for the cargo bay was now a glossy black. With four on the floor, Naota and Rig taught the state's narrow, twisting, hairpin and switchback roads the meaning of having no fear; in a competition to see who could push the old truck the farthest past its limits. Rig also used their new mobility to show Naota the finer points of tailing and following other cars; accidentally discovering the extramarital habits of the UPS man along the way. A CB and private channel radio, and a police scanner installed in the Bronco kept them clear of the cops, giving them plenty of advance warning when an officer was close enough to bring their fun to a screeching halt. It was the most surreal summer Naota had experience in his sixteen years, and couldn't believe it was almost half over already. But if the first month was any indicator, the adventure was just getting warmed up. Then, Rig called to say his guitar was finally fixed.

. . .

I'd finally gotten all the dings, dents, gouges, gashes and smashed bits put right; it was music time. Granted, I'm…not, the greatest player, but if at least half of Naota's claims were true, then together we could at least make some serious noise.

What's up N? I texted him on his 'company phone.' I'd given it to him after the robot at Dahl's site. The phone had all of our contacts, mine, George, Tommy, the shop, so he could speed dial us if needed. It had a few other odds and ends, but let's stay on topic eh?

Not much. Nothing on TV. U?

Guitar's fixed. Grab your bass and come over.

Awesome! Be there in 5. All right, game on.

. . .

"I wonder what kind of guitar Rig has?" Naota wondered aloud, lifting the Rickenbacker off its stand. "He mentioned it once or twice, but really nothing more…then again, I never asked either. I need to get better at following up on questions." He scribbled a note for Gramps and set off down the hill, wondering what they should play first.

"Oh hello Naota! My, you're almost due for another haircut." Aunt Rita answered the door, clothed in a black dress with diamonds sparkling on her ears. As she opened the door, the four Carson family dogs, Gus, Bolt, Sam and Piddles: The Wonder Dog, shot out of the house like furry cannonballs. "George and I are going out, but Rig's downstairs, in his cave haha! Play as loud as you want, just don't break any windows."

"I can't make any guarantees Mrs. Carson." He compromised as he fended off the dogs, who were all too happy to see him. Rita directed him inside and left to a staircase that lead down and to the right. "But we'll do our best."

"That's all I ask for. Now, there's some snacks in the fridge, and some pop too, so stay out of the beer! Have fun!" She said her goodbye and after shooing the dogs outside, closed the door behind her. The sound of George's truck flared then fell away, leaving him at the top of the stairs in a silent house. He made his way downstairs to a full-sized basement, paneled in the exact same wood veneer as his own house. To his immediate right were two closed doors labeled "Tommy" and "Storage". Next was a bathroom and the house's laundry. The farther right wall was dominated by a stone fireplace. Past that was a small bar, but devoid of glasses or bottles. It was covered with the mechanical parts of some gadget, notepads, books, a TV and an Xbox. To his far front, on the opposite side, was a pair of sliding glass doors that opened to a concrete porch, underneath the wooden deck from the main floor. The doors were open to tempt in a breeze. Left of those was the last door, labeled "Jeff". Opposite the fireplace was a day-bed style couch, covered in magazines and reams of sheet music. But all of these things were not the most eye-pulling feature of the room.

It was the stereo, across the landing and left of the stairs. Well, perhaps stereo wasn't quite the right word to describe the monstrosity. It was an audiophile's wet dream, easily fifteen feet across and stretching from ceiling to floor. It was composed of every kind of mixer, playback and audio controller, equalizer, amp, speaker and media player available. All were connected by a network of cables only the original inventor could comprehend. It was a physical piece of musical art.

"Like that little set-up?" Rig appeared from his room with a guitar case in hand, quickly shutting his door behind him. "My Dad built that himself, some of the stuff he worked into it is just…other-worldly. Actually, to be honest, I'm not totally sure how the darn thing works…"

"Right…it's really cool and all, but what're those?" Naota was too distracted to examine the stereo further; after seeing Rig's face.

"These? They're called glasses man." Rig took off a pair of light-weight, gold framed glasses with aviator shaped lenses; spinning them by an earpiece. "What of 'em?"

"They are, real, right?" He was remembering Ninamori and her glasses; how she had insisted they were real one minute, then false the next. It would be a dark day indeed if he were to be fooled by the same trick.

"Of course, here." Rig held them out and Naota put them on. His vision instantly clouded as the glass distorted it. They were real alright. "Yeah, I'm near-sighted. Can see perfectly right in front of my face, stuff far out though, not so good. Gets all fuzzy."

"So why haven't I seen them until now?"

"I ran out of contacts yesterday, forgot to order more." He answered, taking his glasses back and settling them on his nose. "So out these come."

"Right, of course." He agreed, wishing he'd thought of contacts. "So what do you play, what's in the case?"

"My inheritance. Remember the guitar my Dad left me?" Rig uncased his guitar. It was a 1956 Gibson Les Paul Standard with a Bigsby tailpiece and whammy bar, decorated in a bottomless black and accented with stark, ice white. Across the body's face, near the top, was inlaid the words "Back-Breaker"; in bright ivory letters.

"You did a good job restoring it, it looks brand new. But, Back-Breaker? That's a, well, ominous name isn't it?"

"Well first, Tommy and George helped me a lot to fix it, but thanks all the same. And Back-Breaker? That's another thing I don't actually know, why Grandad named it that. But Dad didn't change the name, so I guess I won't either." Rig admitted, looking down at the guitar on his lap. "I never got a chance to ask Grandad, he had his accident when I was a few months old."

"Accident? I think you might have mentioned it before, if you don't mind me asking?"

"He was cutting the weeds and tall grass along the runway, at the edge of the mountain. We're not sure how, but he accidentally drove his tractor off the runway and it crushed him on the way down the hill." Rig answered flatly, gripping his guitar's neck until the wood creaked and his knuckles turned white. "I was only a few months old, so I can't tell you more."

"I'm sorry, that I made you bring it up." Naota really did feel bad for bringing up another of Rig's family accidents. In his own defense, he couldn't have known, but that didn't make him feel any better about upsetting his friend. "So, what can you play? Any personal preferences?" He asked, hoping to quickly change the subject.

"I'm not the best picker, but I can play rhythm parts like a mofo." Rig bragged, setting his case on the couch and plugging into the stereo.

"Gotta start somewhere. What's first on the setlist?"

"Do you know…" Rig rolled his eyes around, rocking his head back and forth while he cast around his mind for songs. "Stranglehold?"

"Nope, I don't." Naota lied as a tease.

"Then get the hell outta this house!" Rig ordered, pointing to the doors, but broke down laughing. "Okay, but seriously, do you?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know a few Ted Nugent songs." Naota plugged in as well and they both tuned up, Rig also making some adjustments to the stereo.

"Ahhh…good ole' Crazy Uncle Ted…" Rig sighed, finished fiddling with the stereo. "Okay, you ready? Ah one, ah one, two, three…" Rig counted them off and he launched into the opening bars of Stranglehold.* Their combined sound and the first barrage of notes shoved against Naota's chest, causing him to sway in place as he maintained his balance. As they played the funky and strangely hypnotic song, he could hear the other parts as well: the crash of cymbals, snapping of snares, his own bass's rhythmic thumping, and the eerie, floating back-up. Rig was doing his best to play lead, occasionally fumbling over some of the trickier parts. But what was interesting to hear, was not Rig play, but sing.

"Yeah, sometimes you wanna get higher…and sometimes you gotta start low. Some people think they gonna die someday; I got news, yah never got to go…C'mon, c'mon up…c'mon, c'mon up…c'mon, c'mon up…c'mon, c'mon up. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon baby…c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon up…c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon baby…C'mon, C'MON, C'MOONNNN!" With a voice normally accented by Central Pennsylvanian, traces of Drawl and Appalachia, Rig's medium-deep voice didn't normally sound adept for taking on the vocals of Derek St. Holmes and Ted Nugent. But he wasn't doing a half bad job. "Road I cruise is a bitch noowwww, you know you can't turn me 'round! And if a house gets in my waAAaaaAAyyy…you know I'll burn it down! You ran that night that you left meeee, you put me in my place! I got you in ah Stranglehold baby! That night I crushed your face!"

After the final crescendo, they stopped for a moment to let their fingers rest and Rig to catch his breath. But Naota wasn't content to play one song and sit around; he came to play, so play they would. He asked Rig if he knew Voodoo Child**, and was asked in return if the sky were blue. So Rig began the initially slow, seemingly meandering notes; a staggering wha-wha riff of apocalyptic blues. It felt soothing to play something so fluid and mellow, especially with someone else instead of his usual one-man concert. They flowed through the song, Rig doing his best to follow Jimi's psychedelic style and push out the lazily floating lyrics; all while Naota kept everything in order and on pace, solid and steady.

"Well I stand up next to ah mountain…and I chop it down, with the edge of my hand…well I stand up next to ah mountain! And I chop it down, with the edge of my hand…" Rig sang, head lolling from shoulder to shoulder, eyes cast down with complete focus on hitting all the right notes. "Well I, pick up all the pieces and make an island…might even, raise a little sand! Yeah! 'Cause I'm ah Voodoo Child! Lord knows, I'm ah Voodoo Child!"

"Got one more in you?" Naota asked as the last few bits of The Experience echoed around the basement.

"Uh-huh, that I do. It's actually one of the few songs I can play well."

"What's that? It's not fuckin' Wonderwall is it?"

"Oh good Christ no." Rig appeared genuinely shocked. "And here I was, thinkin' you had me held in a higher standard. No, screw that, we're playin' Working Man***."

"Uhhh…I don't know that one." Now Rig looked almost beside himself, eyes popping behind his glasses in disbelief. "I mean, I've heard it, just never played it. Rush, right?"

"Are you sure we're friends?" Rig shook his head, then leaned his guitar in the corner. "Here, you're lucky I'm such a nerd." Rig reached under the couch and pulled out a portable music stand, handing it to Naota to setup. He reached under the couch again and pulled out several shoe boxes filled with sheet music. After flipping through reams of paper, he found and plunked down on Naota's stand his part: Geddy Lee's instruction manual for bass guitar excellence. "You can read tabs right?"

"Better than English, I can say that much." Naota said, sight reading quickly over the notes. It seemed doable…maybe. "Let's give it a go."

Rig hadn't been lying, he could play Working Man well, and sing it too. He somehow strained his vocal chords to produce Geddy Lee's higher-pitched lyrics, telling the tale of blue collars everywhere.

"Well I get up, at seven yeah! And I go to work at nine. Got no time for livin', yes, I'm workin' allll the time. It seems to me I could live my life, a lot better than I think I am! I guess that's why they call me, they call me the Workin' Man!...They call me the Workin' Man…I guess that's what I am…" Naota followed along, strumming and plucking away, thoroughly enjoying the oft rumored of bass solo parts. There weren't too many songs that gave their bass player the stage for a bit, and he wasn't about to let the opportunity pass him by, especially at around the two minute mark. "They call me the Workin' Maaan! I guess that's what I am…"

The song finished at last, Rig collapsed on the couch, out of breath.

"Whooooo…that's a tough one, don'tcha think?" He sighed, fiddling his way through some of Alex Lifeson's notes.

"It is, Geddy Lee's one hell of a bass player if he can play this, and sing at the same time." Naota said, flipping through the other sheets of music on his stand.

"Don't forget he also played keyboard at the same time too." Rig added. "He had to use that big ole' nose of his to move the mic out of the way when he moved around, hand were full."

"Use what you're given. Speaking of singers, how come you never told me you could?"

"You never asked." Rig shrugged. "I'm not a good technical singer, but I can imitate voices pretty well. It's one of the few things I've found I'm naturally somewhat not shitty at, singing. But yeah, imitating voices has always been something I can do, here's a favorite. Rmmm….hemm-hemm!" He coughed deeply and cleared his throat. "'Ello there, the name's Brian Johnson an' Ah'm the singer of AC-DC." He growled in the heavy, gravely, northeastern English accent of AC-DC's front man.

"Now that's cool man!" Naota said, then asked something that had been on his mind the whole afternoon. "Hey, if you don't mind, could I take a look at your guitar?" He slipped his bass's strap off his shoulder, holding it out for Rig to take. Rig seemed to draw back, clutching the guitar close to his chest. After a few quiet seconds, Rig quickly slipped the strap off his shoulder and held it out.

"Quickly, 'fore I change my mind." Naota traded him and firmly took the black guitar for his blue one. For its age, it was well maintained, but some components were starting to show wear. The tailpiece also had a scarcely visible hairline crack in it, like someone had slammed the bottom of the guitar against something incredibly solid. The neck felt slightly thicker than what he would have thought normal; but having never held an LP Standard, passed it off as just part of the older design. He turned it over carefully and wondered about its density; it was quite heavy. Nothing odd struck him about the LP, no N.O. generator motor was on the back for starters. Well, there was that small hinge where the neck joined the body, and that was something interesting…

"What in the blazes hell are these?" Rig interrupted, pointing at the Rickenbacker's headstock and the two recessed barrels hidden in it. "You wanna talk 'bout holdin' out? You never told me you owned a bass that shoots beats and bullets!"

"Oh yeahhh…that." Naota sheepishly grinned, his poorly guarded secret out. "Remember that alien woman I told you about, Haruko? This bass was originally hers. Before she left Earth, she took that Flying-V and EB-0 combo, leaving me this one. I guess she decided it couldn't help her anymore, so she abandoned it." He walked over to point out the bass's finer points. "This lever here is the trigger and round selector, I think. This barrel fires shotgun rounds, and this one some sort of explosive; like little grenades or something."

"You sure do know a lot about it…" Rig said, aiming the bass out the open sliding doors like his 760 rifle. "Then again, you've had it for four years…"

"And I found out the hard way about how it works. That pull-cord motor next to your cheek? It generates N.O. channels like the one in my head."

"No shit? Does it really?" Rig asked, moving the bass's body away from his face to take a better look at the orange motor. "And the shotgun, grenade launcher?"

"Funny story that." Naota laughed in hindsight at his foolishness; messing around with an unfamiliar firearm. "So, a few weeks after Haruko left, I was messing with it in my room…and accidentally pulled the trigger; I didn't know it was loaded. It was set to an explosive round and blew a two-foot wide hole in my bedroom wall, took out the neighbor's satellite dish too. Scared the hell out of both of us as well."

"I'd 'magine so, sleepy little town like Mabase…" Rig agreed, holding up the bass again. "So how's it work?"

"Just pull that little lever out." Naota pointed and Rig moved the trigger with a small click.

"'Kay, then what?"

"It's a two-stage trigger. First click will arm it." Cl…Click. "And the second will…wait, what're you doing?" BAH-BOOOOM! Rig fired an explosive round into his backyard, filling the basement with blinding muzzle flash, a haze of dust shaken from the ceiling and a buzzing, ringing whine in their ears. Rig's target, a three foot wide boulder at the edge of the woods, had been blasted to a scattered flurry of shattered bits. "Goddammit. Do you have any common sense or self-preservation? What if the round had blown up in the guitar?"

"Foooo…" Rig ignored him, tilted the muzzle towards himself and blew off the smoke lingering in the larger barrel's muzzle. "Now THAT, is pretty damn cool."

"…I guess it was. Hey, do you think we could…?"

"Go blow shit up with it? I was wondering when you'd ask me! Let's go!"

. . .

It was rather impromptu, but Naota got some range time shooting his bass. It was also a check for me to make sure the darn thing was still working and in good operation. If things went sideways and all else failed, it would be his very last line of defense; and it wouldn't do to have it fall apart. I had been meaning to bring up his bass and its capabilities, but couldn't figure out how to start the conversation. 'Hey Naota, buddy, pal. Know that GSPB custom-made Rickenbacker 4001, killing machine you've got chillin' in your room? Yeah, the one that smashes in M-M robot heads like a sledgehammer versus an egg? How 'bout you and me take it out back and shoot up an old HVAC unit with it? Sound like fun?' Yeah, YOU go ahead and give that a try and not get your cover blown. Funniest thing about it all though, was that he was a better shot with it than any of my guns. Thank. Goodness.

. . .

"Mmmm-hmmm, yeah, yeah! One…two…three…Holy Diver! You've been down too long in the Midnight Sea! Ohhhh, what's becoming of meeee?! Ride the Tiger! You can see his stripes, but you know he's clean. Oh, don't you see what I mean? Gotta get away…Holy Divvveeerrr! Yeah!" Haruko sang, strumming on the Flying-V half of the double-necked guitar she'd stolen…AHEM! Oops, sorry. The double-necked guitar she'd borrowed, from Naota. That didn't bother her though as her headphones thumped into her ears and her fingers slid across the V's strings. Earth's coordinates were already plugged into her Vespa, it was practically driving itself. All she had to do was kick her feet up on the handlebars, plug in, and tune out.

"Shiny diamonds! Like the eyes of a cat in the black and blue! Something's coming for you! Look out!" It had been four hard, crushing years of setbacks, false trails and empty stomachs, but she'd finally gotten a solid lead on Atomsk. He'd gone back to hide on Earth of all places, what a strange choice she thought. The disappearing act he'd pulled a month earlier had been a cute trick, she had to admit. But it was hardly anything that would do more than slow her down. After all, she'd found him on Earth the last time and nearly had him then. Why would this time be any different? Especially since she had his bass, the Gibson EB-0, borrowed, as it was, and that fact itself was certainly a leg-up…not like she needed it, of course. If it hadn't been for Naota getting in the way, she'd be sitting pretty and there would be a Pirate Queen; rampaging however she pleased across the Universe. Yeah…that'll be all kinds of freakin' awesome…anyway, getting back to the point…

As she hurtled past Saturn, one of the millions of rocks in its rings pinged. It had detected the Vespa's power output and recognized its signature. The rock was a camouflaged satellite, stationed by Earth's Overwatch Command to serve as an early warning and listening post. The signal it sent Earthward would reach its destination on about an hour, well ahead of Haruko. The signal would be picked up, decrypted and sent to the various Overwatch stations spread out across the planet. It would also be intercepted by another satellite, hidden in the chaos of Mar's asteroid belt. That second satellite would sent its signal far and away, reaching Medical Mechanica's receiver a few days later. But Haruko couldn't have known about either satellite, and if she did, certainly wouldn't have given a single damn; she was a woman on a mission with the power of the Universe, just coming into reach.

"Ride the Tiger! You can see his stripes, but you know he's clean! Oh, don't you see what I meeeann?! Gotta get away! Get away! Gotta get away! Get awaaaayyy yeah! Holy Diver!"****

. . .

---

Songs:

*Stranglehold - Ted Nugent

**Voodoo Child (Slight Return) - The Jimi Hendrix Experience

***Working Man - Rush

****Holy Diver - Ronnie James Dio

So what'd you think of that? I know it was long, I know there wasn't all that much action, but this stuff is important and I promise it'll alllll be relevant later; trust me. We also now have Haruko coming back into the fold, and I'm really looking forward to her arriving planetside. Also, any thoughts on Medical Mechanica and how I've presented them so far? Let me know how I'm doing, especially since up to this point, everything has been a re-write. Thank you again for reading, please leave a review as a tip, and come again!