#just imagining the three of them hightailing it out of a Sticky Situation

[ritzcuit]

if anyone can hear me, will you consider this friend group with me

datz and raymondi mean eddie are both in their 40s and larry is like early 30s, i think, by this point, maybe later, i just imagine them somehow meeting up in a bar, maybe a party, a waa party where edgeworths extended friendmily shows up, and datz is there because apollo is there, but it just gets out of hand, and datz and ray, i think, become best friends for life within an instant, U cannot tell me otherwise, and larry got swept up in it. he can't escape. He's begging for freedom and theyre not letting him go

[sogoodishouldchargeadmission]

Thanks for Listening Ch. 2

While I do remember the generalized sequence of events and corresponding timeframes that followed, some of it’s gone a little fuzzy. You can thank the potent mixture of adrenaline and head trauma I was forced to choke down for any inconsistencies.

So what did I say to Bower after he pointed a gun at me?

I probably tried to talk him down; all calm and level-headed and reasonable. Leadership has always been one of my best qualities. Tensions were high, sure, but I certainly wouldn��t have said something along the lines of “Go fuck yourself.” Does that even sound like me?

Yeah, I didn’t say that.

Promise.

Anyway.

In the end, my last words to him weren't important, because they were just that--the last words Sergeant Bower ever heard.

Now, he might’ve noticed the silence that had engulfed the outer city like a sheet of wool, if he hadn’t been so busy shoving a gun in my face. And then I might’ve been able to explain that that sudden lack of sound probably meant one of two things: that either the Stranded had won, and they were on their way home, or that the Locust had won, and you get the picture. (Let’s be honest, it’d be like a flock of flying monkeys either way.)  

Point being: Then and there would’ve been a pretty decent time to tap our ruby slippers three times fast and get the fuck back to Jacinto, or any place that felt like home, really.

But no. Bower had been dead set on getting those generators, flying monkeys--or giant flying squid things, as it happened to turn out--or not.

It’s a cliche, I know, but the Reaver really did come out of nowhere. A sudden parting of clouds and screaming shrill enough to break glass were the only warnings we got before the thing landed, shaking the ground and tearing up the pavement with its jagged tendrils.

Within an instant, Bower’s pistol became as threatening as a squirt gun.

For those of you who don’t know--and believe me, I’m not putting anything past you at this point--a Reaver is the Locust’s principal battlefield conveyance. That’s “horsey” to you, sans a few details. Just put on your imagination hats and picture a six legged spawn of satan that shoots rockets and lays onslaught to entire cities, carrying two gun-toting Locust the whole way. The sheer firepower on those things makes it difficult to fight them close range. Tentacles with the capacity to turn grown men into a fine jelly render it a task impossible. I won’t even go into the gaping maw of a thousand-plus teeth, or the fact that they can fly.

You know, I probably won’t ever get used to the way primal instinct turns my body into a machine of its own volition, but that’s also probably for the best; one minute I was six feet away from certain death, the next I was behind a hollowed out minivan, not only holding a gun but shooting it. Theta seemed to forget our quarrel, too, so I guess something can be said for that Reaver; by putting our lives in danger, it got me out of a sticky situation. Oh, I didn’t doubt that if we made it home alive, Bower would have a stick up his ass for the next five to seven weeks. But for the moment, I didn’t have to deal with him.

Unfortunately, not all of us got to go home.  

Castle was already gone. I caught a glimpse of him as my last few rounds went into the Reaver’s passenger-side Locust, bloodied and broken on the pavement.

The Stranded were gone, too, but I didn’t see any of their bodies; it’s most likely they booked it into the bellies of crumbled infrastructure before any of us could say shit. Not that I would have; a fighting chance is all I’d wanted to give them in the first place.

Private Lester, for his credit, mustered up enough courage to unholster his Lancer and point before the Reaver fired its first round of ballistiks. There was a hiss and a boom, and for a second I was blinded by the close-range explosion. When the smoke cleared, Lester was nothing more than a stain on the sidewalk.

What’s that? This is making you queasy? Well, don’t let me ruin your lunch. We can change the topic to:

“Why the fuck don’t you people give us enough bullets?”

In case that wasn’t clear enough, this an official complaint regarding ammunition distribution. Not to be that person, but I’ll bring up the whole paper thing again, if it gets my point across:

Along with a note to ‘please use sparingly’, I woke up today to find a stack of the stuff by my bedside--thanks for that, by the way. Real dignifying.

If you cared so much about people not using this dwindling resource as origami or ass paper, maybe you shouldn't hand it out like it grows on trees. Look outside--there are no trees! So far, I’m seven sheets in. A less responsible human being might’ve had seven airplanes by now, and you wouldn’t have noticed or cared.

And yet there I was with a suddenly empty cartridge, and no goddamn bullets to remedy. Why? Oh, because munitions need to be kept under lock and key. God forbid someone takes as much as they need to save the world.

Seriously, guys, make something happen. Challenge yourselves a little.

What else could I do but start looking for a way out? The Snub Pistol I had left wouldn’t serve much purpose against a Reaver, and it’s just as well I saved it; that ammo turned out to be really useful. I mean, there’s always the blaze of glory option, but I wasn’t feeling it. And with Bower in his own little world of old-timey heroics, and Miles suddenly nowhere to be seen, I thought I’d take it upon myself to figure out the getaway sequence. For starters, that meant hightailing it back to the Packhorse; the turret on its bed would serve as a far superior weapon against our many-legged friend, and then it would just be a matter of picking up the rest of Theta and riding off into the sunset.

Despite whatever occured between Bower and me, I could’ve lived with it. And he should have lived to live with it, but I couldn’t stop what happened next.

By then, the Reaver’s pilot was dead too, leaving us a raging bullet-sponge with no master to say ‘heel’. The rockets on those things fire automatically--so we still had to duck and cover at every fifteen second interval--but for the most part, I saw a window of opportunity. I started running.

Bower took that opportunity to stay right where he was. Maybe he thought by letting the Reaver stand over him, he could shoot at its vulnerable underbelly and save the day. Maybe he didn’t notice the things advancement at all.

For his credit, I doubt he was afraid--the man was a bully, not a coward.

Whatever the case, I got to the Packhorse and turned around just in time to see Jacob Bower fold in on himself like an accordion. Under pressure of the Reaver’s thousand-pound arm, his insides had nowhere to go but out.

Luckily I don’t have nightmares. But if I did, his death would be the one to keep me up at night. God knows I’ve been having enough daydreams about it.

“It is what it is” doesn’t really cover everything, so for the record: I’m not proud of being the only person who got out of there alive, but I’m not apologizing, either. If going back at some point and getting their tags helps everyone feel a little less butthurt about what happened, then great. But a few snotty comments made by a few uninformed assholes in the mess hall isn’t going to make my heart heavy or my tummy hurt, so no need to try.

Theta Squad chose poorly. I didn’t. Boo-fucking-hoo.

I got in the truck and went to turn the key. There was no key.

I won’t lie, for half a second my jaw dropped and my blood boiled.

Regulations dictate that keys stay in the ignition for this very reason, but we all know what kind of person Bower was by now. I spared the pigheaded son of a bitch a glance, but fuck if I knew which pocket he’d bothered to use. Anyway, he wasn’t the only thing in about a million different pieces. That key was unequivocally dead, too, so it was on to plan B.

Oh, to jump start a vehicle. If my grandfather hadn’t beat the living shit out of me every time I messed with one of his old jalopies, I would consider those early summer mornings spent practicing in his garage to be some of my fondest childhood memories.

Once upon a time, stood on a toolbox, up to my elbows in learning, and so forth.

Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with recollections from the dog days of boyhood, or the science behind hotwiring a Packhorse. Just know that it wasn’t a fun time.

The truck wasn’t so bad, though.

For what it’s worth, the Reaver was ignoring me. Maybe it hadn’t noticed that I’d booked it down the street, but I’m of the opinion that ‘smooshed people goo’ is just more captivating to their kind. Hey, maybe it was something altogether deeper, but you don’t want to hear my theories about a flying squid contemplating life outside enslavement, do you? Yeah, I thought not.

Either way, Flyboy (is it weird if I name it?) stayed put, poking and hissing and (maybe) pondering its own existence. How long that welcome lack of attention/existential crisis would last, I didn’t know. Plus, the things rockets were still launching, which meant with some good aim, decent timing, and a little bad luck, I’d go up like a drum of imulsion set to the tune of ‘Baby, you’re a firework’, except I really didn’t want to be.

Think of a sitting duck. Square it, name it Damon, and there I was.

And yet.

You’ll probably call my ability to get the Packhorse started in less than two minutes a “product of superior COG training” or some similar brand of bullshit. I call it talent. The feelings that went with the engine turning over might’ve even been classified as “warm” or “fuzzy”, but then again, I wasn’t given very long to process them.

Now, I know that some of the people reading this have serious heart conditions that render said organ cold, black, or nonexistent. Others in your little clubhouse have never met the umbrella-toting cricket that tells them right from wrong, so we’ll have to excuse them too.

But maybe there are a few of you that have been experiencing a nagging sensation for the past eight to ten paragraphs; something similar to the nagging sensation that I’d been experiencing for the past eight to ten minutes.

The line you’re looking for is “aren't we forgetting something?”

And yeah, close, but it was actually someone.

Private Miles--yes, that Private Miles--decided to come out of hiding. I guess the minute he heard the Packhorse, panic set in, and he figured himself a goner; kind of a late-onset fight or flight response, and he suddenly chose flight.

Hate to break it to you, but things went the route of Icarus real quick.

See, his chosen hiding-spot this whole time had been the building behind Flyboy. To get to me from where he was would require a hell of an act. In light of our situation, there were a few roles he could’ve taken on that would have sufficed. Incognito Spy, for instance. Stoic Hero, another good choice. Shit, I would’ve been happy with Action Man, if it meant a distraction, or an over-the-top plan, or something.

He went with Damsel in Distress, complete with all the theatrics you could possibly imagine. His high-pitched screams certainly caught the Reaver’s attention.

Me? I’ve never wanted to simultaneously cry and run someone over up until that point. Don’t worry, though. I kept the waterworks in check.

Hey, before you get any funny ideas about sticking a bag over my head and shouting ‘fire’ at sunrise, let me explain.

See, with Mile’s running at me and Flyboy stomping after him, there was suddenly no time to get to the turret. I could’ve turned left or right onto the road, ensuring my own safety, but instead made the selfless decision to floor it into my coworker.

...Okay, I can see how that’s still kind of disturbing. I’m not done yet.

They were fifty yards away, roughly. The Reaver was still firing rockets, which left me a thirteen second window to grab Miles and turn out of the blast radius. Obviously, I couldn't stop the truck to do that. Luckily, I didn’t have to.

Disowning all instincts regarding self-preservation, I accelerated, fast, and drove head on into Private Miles. After hitting the hood of the Packhorse, he rolled up the windshield and into the waiting embrace of the truck bed. It was all rather graceful, considering.

No, I’m not going to explain my reasoning or thought process or how I knew that would even work other then that I was attending La Croix at fifteen. You do the head scratching. I’ll do the math.

Sharp turn, big boom, yada yada, and then we were off--me navigating the unfamiliar streets of Hale with a white-knuckled grip, and Miles doing his best to break the rear-view window instead of...oh, I don’t know...manning the turret and saving our asses. Evidently, he thought the sardine-can interior of our vehicle would be safer. That, or he was lonely out there.

By then, I’d gotten us a few blocks, swerving to avoid Flyboy’s missiles and increasingly daring kamikaze attempts. He was back in the air and I was hoping to lose him, utilizing as many alleyways and underpasses as I could come across.

I flinched when shards of glass flew into my hair. Miles had taken to using his helmet, apparently, and the window stood no chance against such a combination as metal and hysterics. Next thing I knew, he was clamoring into the back seat, then up into the front seat.

I remember only a few more things--Miles, a mess of curly brown hair and freckles and sweat. His wails, incessant and incomprehensible and even younger sounding, now that his helmet was gone. His hand, reaching out, grabbing my arm, grabbing the steering wheel.

I wish I could recall every detail of the crash--how it happened, what went wrong. But nothing is ever as simple as fading to black.

Honestly, it just feels like I went to sleep.