by Mephisto Waltz
Some say No-name was nursed on beer- that instead of sucking milk from a plastic nipple, he drank down German hefeweizen- and that's why he could drink the way he did, despite his size. I wasn't sure if I bought it or not, but it was a good story, and it increased his status as a modern legend.
There must've been a smidgen of truth in it, though, because the kid woke up completely fresh, whereas I had a motherload of a hangover. It hadn't helped that we'd stayed up until one a.m. configuring and testing my suit, and it sure as hell hadn't helped that he was a miserable perfectionist who drilled me for an hour after that on the safety mechanisms and reloading techniques. The biggest kick in the ass came when it was time to hit the sack, and I found myself relegated to the bottom of No-name's bed.
The barracks was pathetic. It was a shitty old transport home the Carpetbaggers had hijacked and semi-crashed onto L-3. They'd built the rest of their soup-can buildings around this and set up bunk in the transport. It wouldn't have been so bad if there had been half the guys, since there were half the beds needed. So, everyone bunked up with their partner, which was good in a way for me, since my partner was about eighty pounds and didn't quite reach my armpit. However, he was the scariest sonofabitch I'd ever met and was very specific about where I could sleep in his bed.
"Just don't touch me," he ordered, stripping down to his briefs and slipping under the ratty cover. He contorted his spidery body like a seahorse and clutched at his pillow. With my own pillow, I crawled into bed beside him, taking care not to touch him. He watched me the entire time, suspicious of every move I made, and I just wanted to scream at him, reminding him that he was the psychopath, and I was just a normal guy trying to fall into drunken sleep. When I closed my eyes, all I could see was him looking at me, and when I opened them again, there he was- staring at me. Off and on for at least an hour we played that game, and every time I opened my eyes he was awake, looking ready to pounce. Finally, I got so fed up I grabbed my sleep roll from the floor and crawled to the bottom of the bed, where I finally managed to fall asleep.
Yes, I slept at his feet.
According to the Professor, some wise ass in the 19th century said that noise doesn't wake drunks- silence does. I proved that true when I woke up the next morning, still lying at the bottom of the bed, one leg slung over the edge and the other curled into my chest. At first, I thought I was still at the motel in Vax town because my eyes were gooey and crusty enough that I couldn't open them fully. It was a hell of a lot quieter than it had been, since I couldn't hear the drunken snoring, or the squeaking beds that had helped to keep me awake.
"You sleep like the dead."
The closeness of his voice scared the shit out of me, and I nearly fell over myself in a panic. Wiping the crust from eyes, I saw my favourite toy soldier looming above me. He'd closed the door to dress himself, apparently, because it was now just him and me and silence and all the creepy things that accompanied that scenario. God, how long had he been standing there?
Dressed in hand-me-down camos and carrying his trusty machete, he was ready to play war. According to my hangover, there were three of him ,all in a row, as though they'd been arranged by a seven-year-old to fight his fantasy battles.
It'd take a pretty fucked up seven-year-old to buy a No-name action figure, though, let alone three….
"Get up," he said.
And I did.
Half-dressed and wearing my shit-stained briefs from the day before, I followed No-name through the halls to the communal shower. I was death on legs (or so I felt), and no wonder- I'd gotten three hours sleep max. Psychopath and I were the only ones alive, it seemed, since when we opened the bedroom door our comrades bombarded us with snoring and bed creaking, and someone apparently had nocturnal Tourettes, because he was swearing in his sleep as though he had to fill a word quota for the day.
"Why'd you wake me up so early?" I asked, yawning. We stepped into a big, tiled room with six showerheads bunched together in the centre like a mechanical daisy. No windows, no doors- just porcelain and stainless steel and flesh.
I suddenly felt more awake and definitely more sober.
He undressed quickly, throwing the bundle of clothes into the corner nearest the door. He did it so fast I didn't have a chance to look away, and then I found myself staring at the kid and his scarred and battle-bruised body. Apparently, he thought nothing of this, because he scratched at his thigh and stared back at me.
"I'm doing you a favour. Get undressed."
"What'dya mean?" I asked, dropping my pants and underwear in a single motion. I wasn't ashamed- why the hell would I be? Why did he think I'd be self-conscious around the rest of the men? Fuck, I was more self-conscious with him and the way he started to look at me. It was a bit creepy. "What the hell's your problem?" I kicked my clothes into the corner with his, mostly to get away from him. But the little shit followed me, right into the corner, both of us naked. I wasn't sure what he could do to me, but I wound up to hook him anyway.
He put two fingertips on my chest- lightly, as he'd touched the back of my hand the night before. I wished to god I had enough self-control to suppress the shiver he caused, but I didn't.
"It wasn't meant as insult. You have virginal skin, and -aesthetic as it is- it'll make you a laughing stock. Scar yourself up a bit and then you can bathe with the big boys."
I was about to tell him off, but he broke away from me, turning to switch on the showers. The room quickly filled with a fine mist, and, grumbling, I selected the showerhead beside him, mostly so I didn't have to look at him or all that near him.
Kids his age look a too sexless for comfort- it really wouldn't matter what your sexual preference was since a kid's leg always looks like a kid's leg- slender, hairless and androgynous- and a kid's face always looks like a kid's face- pretty. Even pre-pubescent homicidal maniacs look like that- fucking cutesy.
But, God, I needed to find a place to beat off. I was way too stressed. Hell if I was going to do it in front of the kid, though. . .
Not that he gave me enough time to consider it, because the water was shut off before I could wet myself entirely.
"Hey! What the fuck?"
"Get dressed and meet me at the transport," he said, pulling his legs through and stuffing himself into his pants. Slipping into his wife-beater and boots, he grabbed his jacket and was gone.
He was waiting for me with oatmeal and coffee, for which I was thankful. He was still a bastard, but one who acknowledged the primary needs of the animal now known as 'Kurt'.
He gave me the larger bowl of oatmeal, but the less-full cup of coffee. I found it funny, but only because I didn't know he was an addict (which he was, and has always been, so far as I know.) Later, being introduced to his withdrawal, I wouldn't find it so charming.
The other guys met us soon enough, and they really were just like any other guys I'd ever known, but uglier and rougher. What No-name said in the shower hit me at that point, and I took a good look at collection of scars each man bore. As good a guy he was, Half-face Joe was one ugly fucker, as was Leggo McBean, his lanky partner, who was missing all his teeth and three of his fingers (and was just ugly to begin with). I'll admit I'd always been vain, but this was that kind of unnatural ugliness that comes with torture and war, not hereditary homeliness.
The kid wasn't to that point, thank god- even with the bruises and scars on his back and legs, he still looked very human. Funny how he acted less human than the rest of them…
When everyone assembled, Captain Withers sauntered out of the office, looking like the cat that had lost the mouse. He shoved a few guys out of his way to get to the front, and when he got there, he didn't do anything but grunt. I figured it meant 'suit up,' and I was right, because we did.
I'd tinkered with suits before- living on a war-shredded colony tends to desensitize you and make you curious about weapons- but I'd never had one of my own. That hunk of junk, scavenged from battlefields on earth, was a thing of beauty. God, I felt powerful in that suit, and comfortable. Well, not physically comfortable- the legroom was lacking, but I could handle that. I was so high at that moment.
Although we were just headed to the other side of the city, the transport was necessary- twenty-five mobile suits were hardly inconspicuous otherwise. Supposedly, some party had hired us to wipe out an elite training camp the Alliance had set up just on the far perimeter of the city, across the colony from our industrial site. It was considered 'top secret' so they wouldn't be expecting us, but we did face potential problems with their suits, which were some new fangled beasts that could probably decimate our entire band. However, I was an optimistic newcomer, over-stimulated being in a suit similar to those that had destroyed everything I cherished at one point in my life. Those suits seemingly made me immortal, and that was how I felt.
While I daydreamed, the intercom alarm went off, and I scrambled to remember where the switch was. Then I panicked, pressing buttons at random. I was pretty sure I heard a 'click' there somewhere, but when No-name's face suddenly came up on the screen, I sighed in relief.
"Are you freaking out?" he asked, without even a hint of a tease. His face was cold and emotionless to the point of cruelty, and I wanted to punch the screen right between his eyes.
"Fuck you."
"Fix your seat." And, with that, the bastard signed off.
"Kill-joy," I sneered. He was right, of course, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. I didn't talk to him for the rest of the trip.
I guess I hadn't been paying attention during the briefing, because the part of the plan that included us being dropped from the shuttle directly onto the enemy had eluded me. So, when the floor released and we started to fall, I got kind of panicky. I did manage to pull it together come landing by running through the snatches of No-name's late night lecturing, and I braced myself properly. Impact reminded me of just how much I needed to adjust my seat, but damned if I would.
Beside me stood Joe, in the battered suit he affectionately called 'Delilah'. Like a true pro, he had assessed the situation in the air and was already damaging shit with his missile launchers. Joe had already taken out one of those Specials by targeting the reactor, and was working on another. Leggo was taking a beating from a bastard in a hover suit, but he still looked solid and No-name . . . well, he was something else.
The kid just stood there and blasted the shit out of everything, somehow managing to avoid his comrades. Not one of his bullets so much as grazed us, and not one was wasted. I wasn't sure if he was a genius, insane or just despicable, but the technique was certainly effective.
Before I could fire a round, they'd annihilated our entire section. I was in awe, and I was pissed.
"Joe, Legs- head over to Squad C. We'll be with A," ordered No-name. They followed his commands without question, which baffled me then. Having a kid snap the whip at us was hardly appealing, but no one seemed to care except me. "Kurt, c'mon."
Like a well-trained dog, I followed him. Hell, if the machine had come with a tail, I probably would've been wagging it, despite myself. Thankfully not, because I probably would've operated it with my feet, and my legs were already cramped and sore.
"Shit, I need to fix my seat," I muttered. Unfortunately, I was already lagging behind and couldn't afford to get any more so. No matter how contemptuous I was of him, I would always begrudgingly admit I needed his approval.
Squad A had fallen into an enemy-dense area, and desperately needed No-name and me. Some of the new Aries suits they'd engaged had weird-ass beam sabers, and our junky suits just couldn't compete. I let him do his thing and went in to shield a couple of the guys so they could crawl out of their suits. Captain Withers and his stolen saber wreaked havoc on a couple suits while No-name just blasted the shit out of the rest of them. Juxtaposed, the styles were as different as possible, but they were complimentary, and brought about the same end.
Extermination.
I still hadn't fired a single missile, and I really needed to for the sake of my newbie sanity. However, I needed to fix my seat before I could absorb the shock of launching. Groaning, I took my hand from the joystick, flicked the switch to my right, and threw my weight back to move my seat and free my legs.
The seat didn't move and I clotheslined myself from the back, knocking the wind out of me. Falling forward, I crumpled into the footwell, partially hanging by my safety straps. My suit rocked and I heard a click and a metallic 'thud' to my left. I gasped, choked, and hung there for a moment, until that creepy alarm went off and I slapped at the intercom switch.
"Kurt, you. . ." No-name cut out quickly, and all I could hear was the scream of missiles. They hit something not too far from me, and I felt the shockwaves, my suit lurching forward a bit.
A moment later, the intercom beeped again, and I was afraid to answer it. I knew something had happened, and I was in for an earful. Like a total masochist, I answered.
"What are you doing?" demanded No-name, livid as any statue can be. "An enemy came at you and you unlocked your cannon."
Wheezing and probably looking like a complete moron, I tried to salvage some dignity by sitting up straight as I could. "I. . .," I sniffed.
He dropped the connection quickly, and I watched as he shot down the last suit- one headed for us, one I could've handled had I not botched up. It wasn't as if my life were in danger, but I suddenly felt like a damsel in distress-like a useless twat.
I was mortified.
"Kurt, what the fuck was that?"
Helping some of the guys out in the field while No-name fixed my suit made me vulnerable to backlash, and Captain Withers embraced the opportunity. I saw the bull approach, but I couldn't very well just leave Larry leaking all over the field to take off with the gauze wrapped around my wrist. So I finished cleaning the gash in his calf, wrapped him from knee to ankle, and then stood, ready to face the consequences of my stupidity.
"I. . .didn't know," I said, blandly. I couldn't tell if he was extremely pissed or just a bit pissed, because his face was always that shade of cherry red, and his sparse, white-blonde eyebrows grew naturally frowned. He was glaring, though; red fleshiness bunched around his eyes, tugging up the corner of his lip in a sneer.
"Didn't know what? That pressing the cannon release actually releases the cannon? Fuck sakes, kid."
"Sorry."
"You're so fucking green- don't apologize, it's just a waste of breath. Now, just what the hell is wrong with you?"
I couldn't answer him, and I'll admit I was about ready to cry. Thankfully, I didn't, because I probably would've lost all of the Captain's potential respect. To most people, criers are societal drains, and I was already needy enough as it was. Instead, I studied the mud on my boots.
"Sir, it's my fault."
If I could've, I would have told him off right then and there. I would've told him to fuck himself: that I didn't need his help, that he wasn't my father and that his statement was complete bullshit because I was the moron who'd gotten drunk the night before. So drunk, that I couldn't even remember the cannon release was the larger switch above the seat lever, and that you used it as a tactile guide, but never threw it. He had told me at least three times, and I'd back-talked him every time. Now, he was here, my knight in shining armour, ready to take the rap for the ignorant new guy. I was even too useless to accept the responsibility.
"Your fault, huh?" Captain Withers chuckled.
"I failed him as a trainer."
"So, whatchya gonna do about it?"
"We drill tomorrow, starting at five a.m."
"Fine." The Captain slapped me on the back. "I wouldn't be you for the entire fuckin' world, Kurt," he muttered and left.
My knight in shining armour was a passive-aggressive Dom. I would pay the next day.
I should've left with the Captain, but instead I looked at my shoes, then at No-name's boots, which were clean. How the fuck do you keep your shoes clean tromping around in a battlefield? I hated his boots, and somehow I found the balls to spit on them.
And then he laughed at me.
I almost bent down to polish those beautiful boots. Thankfully, he caught my drift and left on it.
Despite all that, we'd won, so we celebrated.
The Wet Pussy Inn had a drenched cat on the sign. I guess it was supposed to be funny, but the bar actually smelled like a wet cat, so the joke was on them. It wasn't so much a bar as a brothel, and they did a pretty crap job at disguising the fact. Prostitution wasn't illegal on L-3 (or so I was told) therefore there were whorehouses all over, just like the Wet Pussy and Vax Town's pub.
Joe, Leggo, Bear-man, Red Roadkill and a couple other guys invited me to their table. I almost sat alone because I figured they wanted to make fun of me, and I wasn't in the mood. But they ordered me a pint and taunted me until I joined them, so I sat beside Joe and nursed my beer.
The girls smelled like the bar-like animals, sweat, and come- and they spent a lot of time at our table. This old blonde with yellowed teeth and a disproportionately small ass sat in Joe's lap all evening and made a point of harassing me every time Joe downed a drink. She kept complimenting him on his 'raging' wood and moaned like a cow when he rubbed up against her. I hated her instantly, and was glad when Joe dragged her off to fuck her into the headboard (which we heard for the rest of the evening, incidentally).
Bear-man and Roadkill passed a chick in a cone-bra back and forth all night, but neither of them were as distracted as Joe. Hell, they were actually civil to me, especially in comparison to the night before. I was still sore about No-name pummelling me.
"Bah, it IS an initiation, y'know," said Bear-man, slinging back a shot. "We've all been through it. Hell, it's less embarrassing for you, Kurt, 'cause you're still a scrawny brat. For big guys like me, it's a fuckin' farce."
"Yep, that was pretty good," laughed Roadkill, punching his partner in the shoulder. "And then ya had to go through the whole drama of being the kid's bitch. Poor bugger, he had you weepin' by the third day."
"Fuckin' psycho." Chuckling, Bear-man called the waitress over for another round, and had a mighty grope when given the opportunity. I wasn't drunk, but being depressed and tired made it hard for me to process anything, and it took a moment for me to understand their exchange.
"You were No-name's partner?"
"Yeah."
"What happened?"
Bear-man didn't answer, but he got this far-away look on his face- sort of nostalgic, sad and amused all at the same time. It was almost ironic, but it wasn't negative in the least. Laughing aloud, he finished his drink and stood, seeming sober but actually wrecked out of his mind..
"Wanna go?" Bear-man asked Roadkill, who nodded and drank down the rest of his cup. Bear flicked a peanut at me and said, "Joe thinks you need to get laid, and the rest of us agree."
"Who, me?" I choked on my beer. True, I'd thought about it earlier that day, but not seriously. Hell, I was probably too depressed to get it up, anyway. "Naw, I'll go back with you guys."
"No, Kurt, see that girl over there?" Bear-man grabbed my head, and turned it (painfully) toward the bar. I saw five girls sitting there but only one saw me, and I knew she was 'that girl', so I nodded. "That's Ambika, and she's yours for an hour. She's already paid for. Forget the crap with the cannon and go sow your oats, kid."
They left, and Leggo left, and Jeeps and Sam-man and all the rest of them. Some of the guys took girls to the motel, and the rest took a couple of the cars back to camp. I was the last one there, left waiting for the girl at the bar to acknowledge me.
Ambika in the leather skirt and tube top- that was her. By far the most attractive girl there, she had shiny brown skin and hundreds of little black braids that slapped her in the ass when she moved. She had a tiny waist and long arms, but her thighs were thick and round and I could see the muscles work when she shifted her weight. She was fucking gorgeous and exotic, and I was scared shitless because I was probably the oldest virgin on L-3. Hell, the kid had probably seen more action than I had.
That was an erection killer. Then again, No-name seemed capable of killing just about anything. . .
I kept staring at her, and she kept staring back, and God, but she had the greenest eyes and the reddest tongue, which she kept poking out to lick her lips. She turned around on the barstool to face me, legs spread, boot heels hooked in the second chrome ring from the bottom. From where I sat, I could see everything- her freshly come-covered thighs, her shaved pussy and just a hint of pink protruding from her slit. I was aching, but I couldn't move, not even to rub myself through my pants.
After sucking an olive from a plastic sword, she slowly poured a whole martini down her shirt, soaking the cheap fabric enough to show the inner curves of her breasts and to stimulate her nipples. If that wasn't enough, she took the glass, turned it bottom-up, and slipped it between her legs. She used the glass lip of the bottom to masturbate herself, still staring at me, but now with lowered lids and a pursed mouth.
Nature dictated that I masturbate too, and I did, rubbing myself through my pants under the table, hopefully hidden from view. It was hardly the most taboo activity going on in the room- a couple of guys pig-roasting a boy in the corner was much worse- but it was a lot for me. I unzipped my pants, whipped out my cock, and used my leakage as lube. It took about two minutes for me to blow my load all over the floor and underside of the table, and I may've yelled something when I did so (I sort of blacked out).
When the room stopped swirling, she came to me and sat in my lap. With one long fingernail, she traced my features, and drew lines up and down my chest. Seeing her up close, I realized she wasn't as attractive as I'd thought. Her features were coarse and too big for her face, and she didn't have the natural grace I found so appealing. And, strangest of all, she didn't have large green eyes, but black ones far too made up to be what I thought I'd seen.
"You have five minutes left," she said, in a deep contralto.
Such a dark voice; it was darker than I'd anticipated. I had expected it to be more youthful, and quieter.
"Was . . . that my hour?" I asked, stupidly. Of course, she wouldn't do whatever it was she had done for free. I'd been sated, though, so it didn't matter to me. It was actually relieving.
"You're sweet," whispered Ambika, kissing my ear. "You don't deserve all this, poor thing."
"Don't deserve what?" I looked up at her, and she studied my face.
"Samsara."
I waited another ten minutes for Joe and the rest, and we drove back to the Carpetbaggers'. Everyone was exhausted it seemed, because no one said anything, which was fine- I sure as hell didn't feel like chitchatting. The word echoed in my brain, and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. I didn't understand it, but that was probably for the best.
When we got home, I went directly to the bathroom to look at myself- to see 'all that' Samsara on my face. I could not see anything but dirt and sweaty dirt, but I looked long and hard for it. When I couldn't find it, I returned to my room to find my roommate already in bed. God, but he looked innocent in sleep.
"I'm dragging you out of bed at four thirty. You better not be hungover."
Well, he looked innocent under the illusion of sleep.
I stripped and curled up at the bottom of the bed.
to be continued...