#but it’s so fucking itchy and i just took three sips in a row of dr pepper and my nose was so tickly i sneezed this freakish rapid fit of li

[snzluv3r]

adding carbonation to the apparently endless list of things that set off my nose because every sip i’ve had of anything carbonated this past week has made me sneeze

[d0gdaze]

8.

The body swap au a surprising amount of people asked for, actually.

Read on AO3 / Summary

Pairings: Eddie Kaspbrak / Richie Tozier

Warnings: swearing, sexual references, drug references

Chapter 8/?

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Word Count: 4121

Eddie’s playlist

Eddie was sure he was doing a substantial job of appearing calm and collected as Mike's car made an unexpected detour on their way to school the next morning, at least considering the circumstances.

They turned down a street, and then a couple more, until they were driving past a stretch of storefronts. Mostly small businesses, a few 'for lease' signs, minimal parking space. God, they were probably going to make him play hooky. Sit in a dirty, empty lot all day and smoke a bong, or whatever you call it.

He hadn't been paying much attention to what the two in the front seats were talking about, only catching fragments about homework and some guy Beverly was into and other trivial things that seemed stupidly unimportant. Eddie almost felt offended, how dare people worry about such things while he was going through the most traumatic and hellish experience that had ever happened to anyone.

The car rolled to a stop in front of an outdated looking diner he had never been to, though he vaguely recognised. Sadie's, as the unlit neon sign above the door told him, Open 24 hours. The one trashcan he could see was overflowing onto the sidewalk with burger wrappers and plastic cups and there was graffiti littering the outside walls of the establishment and oh jesus was that a rat what the fu-

Beverly jumped out of the car quickly, Mike driving off before the door was even completely closed. Eddie watched her, twisting his head around to look out the rear window until she was inside, then whipped back around and straightened himself in his seat. Mike was now singing along to the song that was playing, drumming on the steering wheel as he circled the block. As they drove Eddie couldn't help but keep frantically glancing at the clock on the small radio display. If it was accurate – which maybe it was and maybe it wasn't, he hadn't gotten a good grip on Mike's time-keeping habits yet, – then they were absolutely going to be late if they didn't get a move on.

“Something eatin' you Rich?” Mike asked, peering back at him through the rearview mirror. The thought ran through Eddie's mind that there very well might be, considering the itchiness of the sweatshirt he had picked up off the floor of Richie's wardrobe. He was bombarded, suddenly, with the mental image of hundreds of bugs crawling up and down his arms. He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows and forced the idea down.

“No, I don't think so,” Eddie replied, starting to pick at a bit of peeling skin around his thumb. He had already chewed up his other one to the point he had to wrap a bandaid around it. Mike's expression shifted.

“You've been acting weird lately,” he said, his voice somehow sounding genuinely concerned and casual at the same time, “ain't been seeming like yourself. Quiet.”

You should be thanking me for that, Eddie thought, because surely even these people, that willingly spent time with and around Richie five days a week and sometimes weekends, would be relieved that he suddenly changed his entire demeanour. Surely.

But Mike didn't look relieved, glad, or unbothered. He had the same look on his face that Ben often wore, when Eddie came to him ranting about grades or track or medication or whatever new thing was plaguing his brain this week. It was the expression Bill showed him when he had broken his arm a few years back, and when someone had taken to writing the word 'faggot' in permanent marker on his locker. It was a look his mother faked a lot and one he hadn't gotten the hang of yet.

Basically, Mike looked the way a person does when they actually gave a crap.

It might have sparked some sort of meaningful realisation if Eddie hadn't been distracted by a pigeon pecking at a half eaten hot dog someone had dropped on the sidewalk.

They circled back around to where Beverly was now standing on the curb in front of the diner, balancing a cardboard tray with three large, white cups in one hand and a fourth in the other. She was also holding a white paper bag between her teeth. Something greasy had made semi-transparent patches at the bottom of the bag. The car rolled to a stop and she made a few attempts to open the door using her foot, swinging her leg up to try and lift the handle with the toe of her converse. It carried on for half a minute before Mike reached over and opened the door for her, biting back laughter as she got in. Beverly mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “you're a douchebag,” though it was completely muffled by the bag still hanging from her mouth. Once she was back in her seat she let it drop into her lap, exposing the spit-covered bite mark now embedded into it. Mike pulled away from the curb, grabbing one of the cups at the same time. Eddie would have yelled at him for not doing a head-check, but then there was a cup being thrusted in front of his face.

He blinked at it for a moment. Some of the thick, off-white liquid it contained was leaking out – he watched a line of it drip down the side and over Beverly's fingers. He could already feel his hands getting sticky just by looking at it, his stomach starting to churn at the thought of drinking it.

Eddie didn't often indulge in food that didn't have the nutritional value and ingredients printed on the back. He knew what was safe to eat – things that would give him enough energy through the day without leaving him restless, and he knew how to adjust his intake if he had PE or a track meet or if he was planning on staying up later than usual. He'd tell himself that it was necessary to be careful, that if he wanted to be on top of his game, he had to be on top of his diet, too. It wasn't the real reason, but it was the one he could live with.

Beverly cleared her throat.

“Earth to Richie,” she said, tipping the cup towards him again, “arm is getting tired.”

He took it tentatively, avoiding the side where the leak had run. It was heavy and cold and wet with condensation, and as he lifted the lid to further inspect the concoction, he was hit with a waft of sugar and vanilla and cream and it was so sweet he honestly felt dizzy. When he tilted the cup to one side the contents held firm, undisrupted, and moving the straw left a gap that took nearly ten seconds to fill back in. Eddie had made smoothies before, and on his last birthday he had bought a strawberry frappe from the ice-creamery in town, but this was a whole different level. Gluttony itself had risen up from the third layer of hell and was now on sale for a dollar seventy-five a pop.

It hit him, suddenly, how he recognised the logo. He'd seen Richie walking around with one of these things nearly every day! He ingested this muck on a regular basis – the boy's metabolism must be running like a bullet train on steroids.

In the front of the car, Beverly was throwing bits of hash brown at Mike as he tried to catch them in his mouth, most of the pieces falling into his lap or disappearing onto the floor. There was a spot of grease on his cheek that shone when he turned his head, and several stains from his collar down the front of his shirt. Her fingers were covered in a similar shine, crumbs collecting on her skirt as she tore more pieces off. Someone sounded their horn as they swerved onto the other side of the road, Mike swearing as he corrected himself but they were both still laughing, and as Eddie was screaming at them in his head for reckless driving and making a mess and playing with their food and a whole list of other things, he took a sip. Maybe it was just muscle memory, or his stomach taking control after he'd skipped breakfast twice now, or if it was just a new Thing about inhabiting a body that wasn't your own that he had to deal with now on top of all the other Things, but-

“Holy fuck.”

The words came out of nowhere, and for a second he wasn't even sure if it was him that said them. It was good. Like, really fucking good – he felt disgusting because it tasted like pure sugar and so many calories, but he was sure in that moment that he could have finished the entire thing three times and still go back for more. One taste and he knew he could drink that shit until he puked, and oh god, this was how addiction started. He had never understood it too much before, why people smoked, or jumped out of planes, or did crack, but hell, if crack was as good as this milkshake he'd probably be the biggest crackhead ever.

Beverly looked back at him over her shoulder.

“He speaks,” she spoke around the straw that she had between her teeth, “you good?”

Eddie nodded, and she grinned and winked at him before turning back around in her seat. He sucked at the straw again, taking a big gulp of the stuff, eyes falling closed in a tiny moment of peace. When they opened again they caught Mike's in the rearview. He was smiling, his eyes crinkled in the corners and bright. Eddie found himself smiling too, only a little, but genuinely. And while he did stop himself, because come on, these people are the enemy! Get it together, he couldn't rid his stomach of the warm fluttering that had manifested.

At least he could blame it on the sugar.

The pleasant feeling came and went, as they often do. Upon their arrival to the student car park, he was tuning back into the regularly scheduled anger, confusion, and hysteria that he was starting to become accustomed to. He scurried off before Mike had even locked the car, chucking his empty cup into a bin outside the school steps without actually looking to see if it went in.

He had barely taken five steps into the building before he was being shoulder-checked into the row of lockers, the barge nearly sending his knees out from under him, a shock of pain shooting up his elbow where it collided with a padlock. He winced, then groaned as a rough hand gripped his other shoulder, manhandling him so his back was fully pressed against the metal.

"Good morning, Hamlet,” Henry jabbed, leering at him while digging his chipped, dirt-filled fingernails into Eddie's shoulder.

Eddie blinked incredulously at him – harassment was nothing new to him, especially from Henry and his goons, and he had gotten his fair share of insults and injuries over the years but they were mostly in passing. Someone would knock his books out of his hands in the hallway or tape a 'kick me' sign to his back, but they didn't touch him, never cornered him. At least not after he had accidentally broken Bradley Donovan's nose when they were doing wrestling in PE. Or maybe they were scared of catching something off the kid with a backpack full of pills and ointment tubes. Either way, he wasn't complaining. He'd take the remarks and the rumours over this any day.

“You gonna say good morning back?” Henry's breath was hot and rotten, masked only slightly by the smell of juicy fruit gum, and he was leaning in so close that his glasses started to fog up. Belch Huggins, who Eddie now realised was also standing there, shuffled closer. He was grinning in much the same way Henry was, the pair of them doing an outstanding impersonation of every bully from every movie involving teenagers ever. “Say it, tall-ass!”

Henry slammed his fist into the locker next to Eddie's head. The sound made him jump, and caused a few passerby to look in their direction, but no one actually stopped what they were doing. He even caught someone roll their eyes – they've all seen this before, he realised. Of course they had. God, he was an idiot. He'd spent so much time hating Richie Tozier that it had never occurred that other's did too.

“L-l-lay off, Bowers,” an unmistakable voice appeared from behind Henry. Eddie lifted his head to peer over his shoulder, seeing both Bill and Ben standing in the corridor. The latter was holding a precarious stack of library books, which to Eddie seemed like a years worth of reading but for Ben would last two weeks, if that. Bill had a new blonde streak in his fringe that meant he had either been rejected again or had gotten into a fight with his parents – he assumed the second, because Bill was very bad at being low-key around girls and he hadn't picked up on any new crushes in the past couple of weeks.

“This doesn't concern you, Denbrough,” Henry warned, glancing back at them. His grip tightened in Eddie's shirt and he swore he heard a seam rip. “I'll get to you queers later.”

Bill stepped forward; if it was a spat with his parents that led to the late night bleach job, then Eddie knew the boy would be looking for a way to relieve some anger, and he wasn't about to stand there and watch him get his underwear pulled over his head.. again.

“Henry,” he coughed, drawing the bully's attention back with a sharp turn of his head. An audible crack emitted from his neck and Eddie cringed. Henry sucked his teeth, eyebrows lifting in an unspoken taunt.

Welp, he was going to regret this.

“If you're gonna make the choice to have an outdated haircut, you could at least use some fucking conditioner.”

The speed at which he was pulled forward and slammed back would surely have given him a killer case of whiplash, but luckily for him the back of his head was smashed against the locker hard enough to leave a dent, and the resulting headache would be agonising enough to distract him from the neck pain. He sunk to the ground, vision spinning violently. He felt someone reach down and take the glasses off his face, which only worsened the distortion.

More things happened that he barely registered – someone kicked his leg, another dropped a heavy glob of spit onto his sleeve. He heard something clatter to the ground next to him and when he felt around to pick it up, he came up with the two halves of Richie's spectacles, snapped right at the bridge.

Fucking christ.

Richie had only seen the end of the altercation, coming in through the west entrance to the sight of Mullet-head Bowers nearly knocking him out and breaking the glasses he had just replaced the month before and had been so careful with, because his parents had sworn it was the last pair they would pay for. But now it was back to tape and wonky lenses like when he was thirteen and couldn't keep them intact to save his life.

He'd caught the bus in and sat next to Ben Hanscom, whose name he was now aware of because it was written in blue glitter pen on a label on his walkman, and because the first thing that he noticed when he got on the bus was that This Kid Has An Actual Walkman! Ben also had a hoard of novels on his lap that he was going to return to the library after school in exchange for different novels. Ben also spent the bus ride giving Richie brief but enthusiastic reviews on each of the books he had brought with him, but Richie was too distracted by the portable CD player and the Backstreet Boys song he could hear faintly coming out of Ben's headphones that he didn't retain a single piece of information.

After getting off the bus, he had made a beeline for this one smoking spot behind the dumpsters. Not the best location, he tried not to make a habit out of going there, but it was close and secluded and there were never many people around. He'd nicked the emergency carton from under his bed before Eddie banished him to casa de Kaspbrak, and dragged two cigarettes down to the filters before heading inside, finishing them both in record time if you didn't count the minute he took in the middle to cough up a lung.

The first bell rang, and Henry and Belch fled the scene, falling in with the crowd of students bustling towards their morning classes, but not before Belch could slap the books out of Ben's hands with one downward swoop. They scattered to the ground with a clamour of thuds and flaps. The hallway gradually emptied. Richie stood back and watched as Bill tried to help Eddie to his feet, only for him to start swaying precariously and sit himself back down again.

“Oh, shit,” Mike appeared beside him, suddenly, walking in through the doors with both Beverly and Stan in tow. They had been laughing about something, he didn't know what but he felt jealous already, and Stan was drinking a shake and oh, man, he could use on of those right now. The three of them rushed over, Beverly shooting Richie a confused glance as she went past. Mike knelt down beside Eddie, inspecting his face for bruises, and Stan set down the cup, picked up the broken glasses in one hand and used the other to swing his backpack around to his chest.

“Bowers?” he asked, turning to Bill and reaching into a side pocket of his bag. He nodded and Stan sighed, pulling out a roll of masking tape.

“Y-y-you always carry that ar-r-around?” Bill tittered, taking the frames as they were passed to him and holding them together so Stan could start taping them up.

“It comes in handy,” he replied, “knowing this idiot.”

Beverly finished helping Ben gather his stuff, placing the last novel on top of the tower. He had to crane his neck to rest his chin on it, thanking her sweetly and failing to hide his flustered-ness.

The second bell rang, meaning class had started and they were all getting tardies at this point. Ben apologised to the lot of them and hurried off. Stan handed the glasses back and quickly followed suit.

“I'm fine,” Eddie insisted as he tried to stand for the third time, “lemme up. I'm good.”

“Dude,” Mike said, forcing him to sit back down for the third time, “you could have a concussion.”

“Concussion?” Eddie repeated, slumping back down and looking at Mike in horror, his eyes taking up half his face with how wide they were. Richie groaned, gaining the group's attention and receiving four different types of weird stare.

“E-Eddie,” Bill called over to him, and gee, that hairstyle was really something, “you know stuff a-a-about conc-c-concussions?”

He walked over, until he was standing over Eddie. No, he thought, but I'm getting a pretty good grasp on migraines.

“He'll be fine, probably,” he muttered, hooking a hand under his elbow and yanking him to his feet. Eddie paled, leaning all his weight on Richie and nearly toppling them both over.

“I don't feel so good,” he wheezed, his breathing suddenly shallowing. For a moment, Richie thought he might actually pass out.

“You're fine,” Richie said, sounding and feeling a lot less confident about it. He turned to the others. “I'll take him to the nurse.”

“I'll come with you,” Beverly offered, looking up at Eddie with alarm.

“No,” Richie interjected, too quickly and too loudly, and was met with even more confusion. “I mean, it's okay. I-” say something convincing “-have a punch card.”

He left then, rushing out before he or anyone could say something else, as fast as he could manage while trying to keep Mr. Drama Queen upright.

Bill, Mike, and Beverly exchanged looks as the two of them stumbled down the hall.

“That was weird, right?” Beverly asked, just as they turned the corner. Mike let out a nervous, breathy laugh. Bill ran a hand through his hair, and sighed.

“It's r-Richie and Eddie,” he said, “I'm starting to get used to it.”

“You're not having an asthma attack.”

Richie had dragged Eddie into the boys bathroom, and after checking it was vacant and locking the door, proceeded to finally start losing his shit on the outside as well as the inside. Eddie was sitting with his knees up to his chest on the floor, heaving in rasping breaths and mumbling unintelligibly about brain damage and asphyxiation.

“I am,” he insisted, for the umpteenth time, “I'm having a fucking- I can't breathe. I can't fucking breathe.”

Richie ran his hands down his face, then knelt down in front of him.

“Dude, again, you can't be having an asthma attack, because I do not have asthma,” his voice was brimming with frustration; everything was a mess and the only person he could find an ounce of solidarity in was an overdramatic asshole who wouldn't even play his part right.

“I think I'd know if I'm having a fu-” another gravelly inhale, and Eddie's hand came up to grip at the collar of his own shirt, pulling it away from his neck, “fuck, I need my inhaler.”

“You don't have it with you?” He was sure he couldn't have even pretended to sound sympathetic at this point.

“No, asshole,” Eddie snapped, and Richie had half a mind to just leave him there to deal with this shit himself, but he had too many things he needed to say to him that wouldn't be properly conveyed in a strongly-worded letter. “I can't get into my own room.”

“Well, that's not my fault, is it?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“You really think you're funny, don't you,” he stood up, distancing himself so he wouldn't feel as much of an urge to punch him. He took a deep breath in, then exhaled slowly. “What's your locker combo?”

Eddie blinked up at him, eyebrows knitted together.

“What? Why?”

“Because I assume you have more than one fucking inhaler,” he replied, “and I also assume you keep at least three spares in your locker, correct?”

“Fuck you,” Eddie coughed, starting to realise that cooperation might have been a good plan and that he wasn't getting anywhere with the bickering route, but also feeling like he had already thrown the brakes out the window and was too far gone to stop now. He was starting to get dizzy again. He let his head roll back against the wall.

Richie let out a heavy sigh.

“Combination,” he said, “or you choke to death on the bathroom floor.” He moved towards the door, pulling his bag back onto his shoulder, “I couldn't give less of a shit which one you choose.”

Eddie hesitated, grinding his teeth. Choking to death wouldn't be the absolute worst way to go, but it still wasn't ideal. The door creaked as Richie began to push it open.

“Six eleven twenty-two,” he croaked. Richie walked out without so much as a nod of confirmation, and as the door swung shut behind him Eddie started to worry that he hadn't heard him at all.

So here he was, sitting in filth, stripped of dignity with a throbbing ache echoing around his skull, and feeling very much like a bad person. But despite the haziness and discombobulation, he was starting to come to terms with the fact that this whole thing was real. He hadn't before now – had felt disconnected, trapped in a limbo since the previous morning, somewhere outside of reality, and he truthfully had expected it to just end at some point. It had to, he thought. It was a dream state, and nothing he was going was actually happening and when it was over things would go back to the way they were. But now, god. He was in the midst of a lot of pain and panic, and it had shocked him to the point of realisation, and some clarity.

This was real. This was real. He really truly believed that now.

And because it was real, so were his actions, and therefore the consequences that they resulted in.

The pinhole got tighter. The door opened again. Wordlessly, Richie handed him his aspirator.

Tag list (bolded won’t tag):  @fanficisgoodforthesoul @i-is-gazebo@dandeliontozier@panicatbakerst@howellhxlic@musicalsaftermusicals@bernaynay@bust-a-move-bev@reddie-to-go@richietoaster@omgboiledcabbages@reddietofall@flowersiren@lousytrashmouth@get-fcking-reddie@finnwollfhards @bjrdies@steve-harringtwin@thecastlebyers@books-and-donuts@valenschmidt@grasshoppper@80s-trashmouth@beepbeeprichiellc@little-miss-hellraiser@okay-i-get-it-alreddie@finn-trashmouth@kaspbrakseggo @lolahood @sad-synth@turtleneckrichie@reddieforanything @vitomire @its-stranger-than-you-think@spooky-risley @ohheydatsme@hoteltozier@holystanlon@apatheticphotos@dewdropseddie @ill-float-too@peterparkerwithoutacause@sir-furry @ailecstuff @bird-uris@iamworried7@beepbeepbitchard@trashcanonlegs@11leggomyeggo11@bisexual80scliffjumper @reddieseggrolls @rediietoship @starryeyedstanley @beepbeep-losers @richiefuckfacetozier

[disappearinginq]

Jinx

For @blazeofobscurity, who helps more than she knows with plotting out things for Magnum-verse. I am a solid 99.9% positive this isn’t how first meetings went down between Rick and TC, but it’s totally my head canon and you can pry it from my cold, dead fingers (even if they cover it in the show). Oh, and @chrisii-the-random-whump-writer - this might count as whump, so I don’t know if you want to be tagged in this or not, but lemme know if you don’t, and I’ll fix it!

Three gunners in six months. That had to be a new kind of record.

“I think I have just the guy for you,” Greico said, a slow, Cheshire like smile forming. “Yeah. I know I got just the guy.”

“He good with guns?” TC asked. “And heights?”

Greico shrugged. “Who fucking knows? He’s a scout sniper. Lost his spotter to a case of nerves, or so he says. Personally, I think he’s the one who scared the guy shitless.”

TC raised an eyebrow. “And you’re gonna give him to me? It’s not even the same MOS.”

Greico waved his hand. “It’s the Sandbox. It’s like Kansas. Nobody cares about us here. But he’s the best shot I’ve seen in…shit, years. And he’s good under pressure. Last place he and his spotter were dropped was shy of the Korengal and nary a scratch on them.”

TC whistled appreciatively. The Korengal was a nightmare to fly. High mountains, trees obscuring the ground, radio interference, no place to pick up or set down and crawling with Taliban looking to take pot shots at low flying hueys with everything from rocks and slingshots to RPGs. Visibility was crap in the air. He didn’t want to imagine what it was like from the ground.

“Who is he?”

“Orville Wright,” Greico said, and TC accidentally inhaled his water instead of sipping, coughing and spluttering as he tried not to die.

“Are you fucking serious? That’s his name? His actual name? Not just some weird ass nickname I don’t even want to guess the origin for?” he wheezed in between breaths.

Greico edged another glass towards him, curling his lip slightly at the spit all over his desk. “God given, apparently.”

“Christ,” TC gasped. “No wonder he likes shooting people.”

“I didn’t say he liked it, I said he was good at it,” Greico amended, then looked thoughtful. “Though to be fair, he has been known to whistle on his way to work, so…who knows. He might be a psychopath. We don’t screen for that type of thing anymore.”

TC frowned. “Budgets?”

Greico snorted. “I wish. Nah, now it’s considered discriminatory to ask about someone’s mental health before we hand them a rifle and ask him to kill on behalf of Uncle Sam and the Sons of Liberty.”

“So your plan is to give me a sniper who may or may not be a serial killer in uniform who doesn’t even have the right MOS for the job? Is it because you hate me?”

Greico snorted into his coffee cup. “No, that’s because of budgets.”

TC sighed. Perfect. Just what he needed. Another ulcer.

“You want to meet him?”

“No.”

“Good,” Greico said, slapping his hand on the desk as he put his feet on the ground. “Come with me.”

*&**&*&

“Besides being a possible sociopath, anything else you can tell me about him?” TC asked, easily keeping stride with the senior officer as they made their way across base.

They were considered a combat zone, despite being on base, so fortunately no one saluted. It was one of the things TC hated about being an officer, but if it meant he got to fly, it was a small price to pay.

“You mean besides his parents clearly hated him?” the colonel asked, snorting. “Yeah. His enlistment papers are bogus. But he’s good enough at his job no one cared enough to look into them. No drug history, so that’s a solid. A little temperamental.”

TC pulled up short. “Hold up. How ‘temperamental’ are we talking here? I ain’t flying with a moody itchy trigger finger.”

Greico didn’t even break stride, forcing TC to jog a few steps to catch up. “Nothing too extreme. Can’t be too twitchy if you’re gonna hit a target at 2000 meters.”

TC blinked. “2000 meters? Was that a freak shot, or what?” That was over a mile.

“Don’t know. Kid’s been in closer quarters ever since, but I betcha if money was on the line, he could make it at 2100. Or further.”

Well, shit. No wonder the Marines didn’t go poking to heavily at his history. The longest sniper shot on record currently was just shy of 2500 meters, a little over a mile and a half.

“He’s not a bad kid,” Greico said. “Got a hell of a chip on his shoulder for reasons unknown. The ladies seem to like him well enough. Hasn’t stabbed anybody, on purpose or otherwise, so that’s a plus. Got an attitude problem though. Thinks he’s the toughest guy around, and so far, he’s been right. Naturally, it’s caused a little…friction with some of the other men.”

“Wow, sir. Way to upsell this kid. Sounds like I’ve struck gold.”

Greico snorted at that. “Ha! Like you’re one to talk. You’ve lost three gunners, Major. And no, it doesn’t matter that only one of them died it was just a lucky shot by some haji with a rifle. No one wants to ride an unlucky bird.”

They were getting towards the enlisted quarters now, which were just row upon row of numbered Quonset huts. The air conditioning units by the doors shook and rattled and sounded like they were on their last breath – which they probably were.

“Here we are,” Greico announced proudly. “Lucky number 13, Major. Looks like it’s fate.”

TC fought the urge to roll his eyes as he followed the colonel through the door.

&^&&^

It sounded like Fight Club.

It looked like Fight Club.

Over a dozen enlisted in various stages of dress – some in their full BDU’s, some still in their tees and boxers, and everything in between gathered around the far end of the Quonset, shouting at the top of their lungs. They stood on tip toes and braced against their friends’ shoulders to see over heads, stood on top of bunks and whatever available piece of furniture there was to see whatever the hell was in the middle of the circle they’d formed.

“What the hell is this?” TC shouted to be heard over the cheering.

There was a crash, and a roar erupted from the crowd. TC could just see someone being lifted and slammed like a linebacker onto something that broke with a crunch.

Greico offered a shrug and tapped the shoulder of the closest Marine. “Hey, who’s winning?”

The younger Marine whipped around, clearly about to rip the colonel a new one for interrupting when his eyes caught the eagle on Greico’s collar.

“Officer on deck!” he shouted, elbowing his buddy hard in the ribs as he jumped back a step to the foot of a cot, snapping to attention. As Marines noticed what was going on, and who was suddenly in their midst, they scrambled for their position in front of any rack available.  

As they jumped to either side clearing a path, TC could finally see what they’d been cheering on. Two Marines, still oblivious along with the edge of the circle who were only now realizing what was happening, were in the middle of a fight.

Both of them looked like they were giving as good as they got – the one still standing was tall, broad shouldered and the poster child for the term jarhead: tattoos up and down both arms that were as big around as TC’s neck, boot camp styled high and tight haircut and wearing his BDU’s. His nose looked soundly broken, or at the very least, sufficiently bloodied, one eye darkening with an impressive shiner.  

The one on the ground was only slightly smaller and a lot younger, built less like a brick shithouse and more athletic and considerably shorter, dirty blonde hair just shy of being too long to be in regs and the beginnings of an unauthorized five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw – though that might be more bruise than beard. He only had his BDU pants on, though they were comparably faded from what they should be. Like other guy, one eye was starting to swell shut and his teeth were stained red from a sliced inner cheek and he was lying amongst the wreckage of what was presumably once a table he’d just been slammed into by the Hulk towering over him.

Neither one seemed to notice the officers, until one of their buddies shouted, this time much louder without the added jeering of the crowd to cover it, “Officer on Deck!”

The tall brute of a Marine snapped to, hands obediently and expertly snapping to his sides as his heels audibly clacked together.

The one on the ground stayed there, breathing hard and not impressed enough by a colonel and a major to pick himself up off the ground.

“I present to you sergeant Orville Wright, Major,” Greico said proudly, stepping to one side as he gave a Vanna White impression. “Your new door gunner.”

TC eyed the muscle bound Marine dubiously. He looked like a serial killer. Or a flunkie bad guy from a Rocky sequel. He would be surprised if the man could even fit in a ghillie suit, but Greico seemed impressed enough with him, so TC figured he at least owed the guy a shot.

“Nice to meet you,” TC said, about to extend his hand in greeting.

The Marine on the ground took that exact moment to rear his knee back and slam his foot into the other guy’s groin.

The jarhead made a noise that wasn’t quite a scream, and not quite a squeak as he curled in on himself, doubling over and collapsing to the deck in the fetal position as he turned a violent shade of red and purple as every other man in the room hissed and winced in sympathy as one entity.

“Nice to meet you too, Major,” the kid on the floor huffed. He turned his head to the side and spat out a wad of red before turning back to TC, looking at him upside down from the ground as he held out his hand, knuckles torn and bruised. “You can call me Rick.”