24-May-2004
revised: 28-May-2004
Title: The Worst Thing
Author: Sol 1056 - sol@scimitarsmile.com
Rating: PG-13 for language, may go up
Warnings: none, unless you consider Quatre POV to require warning
Archived: sweetlysour & gwaddiction ;D
Pairings: consider them developing, because I'm really not sure what
they'll be, but it will NOT be a 3x4x3 story. That one is pretty
certain already, although it will have strong 3+4 notes.
Notes: So... yeah. I'm too tired with the new job (and my schedule's still
messed up), so I've only sort of started Tet. This one's a little
easier, and the storyline is simpler, so I don't feel quite as
compelled to do long, intense chapters or bother too much with being
all anal about it. Expect some revisions, based on commentary, so YES,
crit is welcome!
Time passes quickly when you've got your nose in a book. Four weeks into the semester, and I was still finding my feet, but that was mostly because I often had a book or notepad in the way. I'd taken to writing everything down, but still had time to doodle in the margins. Little sketches of my professors, my classmates, my hand, my shoe sticking out from under the desk. I also carried around a three-by-five card, to cover those sketches when I'd copy my notes for any classmate who'd missed class. The girl would giggle, and thank me, and take the notes while eyeing my notebook, and offer to buy me coffee. But I still wasn't going to show any of them my sketches, and I didn't really like coffee much, anyway.
I discovered that a cool way to spend a Tuesday afternoon was at the grocery store. Felicia called it a bodega. That was probably the coolest part of all. Bodega. There's a word I could roll around in my mouth, draw it out long and low like Felicia said it, and feel like it was something exotic. Narrow aisles of produce shining under the artificial lights, cans upon cans of different foods that I had no idea how to cook; I stuck to the simple things like sandwiches. When I found the bodega sold cheap pots, I bought one, and expanded my repertoire to include soup.
Classes continued, and we built our suspension bridge. I had ended up being the de facto leader of the team, which was both something that flattered me and embarrassed me at the same time. I did my best to pawn off as much decision-making onto the rest of the group, but the more I did, the more they called me the team leader. Eventually I gave up, and let them say what they wanted. As long as we were working, Lola couldn't tease me, and Lisa wouldn't moon over Chip while he wasn't looking.
We were four weeks into the semester, halfway to midterms, when Dr. Robinson announced an opening in the laser lab. I checked it out while Chip chattered over my shoulder about an upcoming party, and reviewed the job responsibilities.
Check, check, check, I thought, pleased. I can do that. Then I scanned the second half of the posting, and my heart sank. A job would be good to have. I mean, money – really, at the bottom line – wasn't necessary. But I had put myself on a budget, based on the average amount of scholarship at the university. And besides, I was getting a little bored in Structural Engineering, although the professor was cool. Sanskrit was a challenge, but I was starting to suspect I could sleep through Calculus and ace everything.
The problem was that I'd never held a [real] job in my life. I'd never written a resume, or been to an interview. Why bother, when the job was yours from birth? How the hell was I going to explain I could handle the responsibility, when the only jobs I could admit to were ones cut out for me, handed to me, and completed even if I didn't do the work myself? After the Eve Wars, Chang and Yuy had often called me up to help run the strategy on some of the more pressing rebel factions that sprung up, and I'd never had qualms walking away from my busy work.
That's what it really was, after all. There were reams of accountants and secretaries and assistants and analysts who were perfectly capable of doing their job without my interference. I was just the figurehead, the person to nod to and greet politely in the morning, carrying a briefcase that held nothing of any true important, wearing the suit and tie picked out for me by someone else.
And now I had to do my own laundry, which was when I decided that going without underwear wasn't that difficult, once you got used to it. Socks were another issue, however, so laundry had some value. However, socks could be washed in the sink and hung over the shower rail in a pinch. I was rather proud of myself for thinking up that adaptation.
I thought I was adjusting well enough, even if I still got skittish the nights there was gun fire in the streets, and I still startled easily when pushed into a crowd of students. Chip and his friends coaxed me out to a few movies on campus, free to students, and I did my best to enjoy myself. The first two were comedies. The fourth week of school, it was some kind of shoot 'em up drama with a ridiculously implausible love interest.
So there I was, watching the hero and his girl trade insults. I kept thinking of Heero and Relena during the war, or Hilde and Duo: both couples I'd figured would end up together, being so perfectly simpatico. Nothing came of it. But Chang and Po were like that – and still were. I had to laugh, but not at the same thing as everyone else. I was imagining Po's face if I ever suggested that she and Chang would end up together, thanks to their obvious chemistry and passion. They sure always argued like cats and dogs, but insult one and you could expect to find the other one's gun in your face before you had time to blink.
Just as I got to that mental visual, the hero pulled out his gun. At first I was impressed with the model, being a newer kind that wasn't often seen on the open market. But when the hero fired, the hapless victim flew backwards ten feet and I nearly choked on my popcorn. I counted the bullets spraying from the hero's gun, which had passed ten rounds - without reloading - at least five minutes before. And I sank down in my seat, mildly annoyed when the hero knocked out five bad guys who'd had the decency to come at him one at a time.
All I could think was: damn, if only Oz had been that conscientious, we would've thrashed them even faster. Thoughts like that made me laugh, though, when everyone else was on the edge of their seats. I attempted a poker face, rather than pretend to be astonished, and to cover the helpless laughter I could feel bubbling up.
When we left the movie, Mike bumped me in the shoulder, his expression curious. "Hey, you not like it? I know the chick was skanky, but the action sequences—"
"Were absolute bullshit," I blurted out. Chip came to a complete halt on the sidewalk, his eyes wide, and I managed a wry grin. "But it was okay, I guess."
"What was bullshit about it?" Chip was watching me closely, and I wondered if I'd accidentally offended him. He didn't feel offended though, just puzzled, and I realized Mike and Vin were echoing Chip's look.
"Ten rounds to a magazine," I said, rather weakly. "That guy shot seventeen rounds before reloading."
"That's Hollywood," Vin said, laughing. "They do crap like that."
"And the girl was using a fifty-caliber round," I continued, unable to stop. "At her weight, she should've been the one flying backwards, not the guy she hit. Hell, if she could even lift the gun in the first place."
"You know guns, hunh," Chip said, his tone measuring. "See," and he turned to the other two guys, "Cat's got friends on the force, in Preventers. Bet they've pumped his head full of crazy ideas."
"Something like that," I muttered. Suddenly I wasn't so sure I wanted to go with them to the party Mike had heard about, off-campus. I felt instead like kicking myself. I hadn't yet found the rulebook, but I was sure somewhere in there had to be a passage against spouting esoteric technical trivia among my otherwise ignorant peers.
But then Vin changed the subject to the question of who'd slept with Lola already, and I let the topic move away from me, neither confirming nor denying my own interaction with her. I'd not slept with her. I didn't even have her phone number, unless she was the one who scribbled it on a piece of paper and shoved it into my back pocket the other day after class. I wasn't sure, so I'd thrown it away.
The party was loud, of course, free from the campus noise restraints, and filled to the brim with students. We had to crawl in through a side window to fit into the first-floor apartment, and soon we had our plastic cups filled with cheap beer, standing in a group waiting for pretty girls to notice us. I leaned against the wall, watching my friends over the edge of my cup, amused at their preening, loud joking, the boisterous movements of young men who want someone to notice them. This was behavior I could recognize; Duo had pointed it out to me often enough, and did it himself when the fancy struck him.
"Drunk yet?" Felicia's voice snapped me out of my entertainment, and I glanced down to see her lean against the wall next to me, her shoulder almost even with mine. I frowned, and bent over to stare at her feet. When I stood up, she was grinning lazily.
"All right, you're wearing heels," I said. "Damn, and I thought I'd shrunk." I glanced down into the half-empty cup of beer. "For a second there, I thought this crap was actually having an effect."
"Fat chance," she retorted. "You'll need six more to get tipsy. Watered down, I'm sure."
"Too bad they don't have something worthwhile, like vodka." I drank the rest of the beer, and tossed the cup one-handed over my friends. It landed in the trash can, ten feet away.
Felicia whistled. "Not bad for a white boy."
I blinked, and once again she winked at me. She seemed to always know the right thing to say to trip me up, and I think she enjoyed doing it, too. Sometimes it bothered me, and sometimes I could shrug it off, but I always gave her the same response: a small smile, like I knew something she didn't. She'd begun answering the look with one of her own, and I figured that made us even.
"You here with Canh?" I leaned against the wall again, crossing my arms. Some blond girl had draped herself across Vin, who was looking mighty pleased with himself.
"Yeah. Got here half-hour ago." Felicia sipped her drink, too daintily in my opinion for someone so blunt the rest of the time. "Might dump his ass, though, if he keeps making eyes at those girls in the corner." She shrugged.
"Get rid of him for just looking?" I was a little shocked. It seemed rather capricious.
"You think I couldn't get someone else even better?" Felicia cocked a hip, and gave me a smug look. "Don't underestimate me, handsome."
"Never would, gorgeous," I replied, and she laughed, a throaty sound. She'd come up with that nickname and didn't seem like she was planning on dropping it, so again fighting fire with fire seemed the best option. At least in her case, the moniker fit.
We ended up hanging together while Chip and his friends melted into the crowd. Lisa had appeared, so naturally Chip gravitated towards her, leaving the rest of us to our own devices. Vin was ensconced by the bathroom door with the blonde, and who knows where Mike had wandered off to – probably doing beer shots with the other former athletes, I guessed. The comedies we'd seen, the weeks before, had characters like Mike and Vin, and I'd assumed the characters were cookie-cutter stereotypes. After several afternoons and two parties in their company, though, I was fully convinced the screenwriters had known Mike and Vin from somewhere, and were just faithfully duplicating their personalities on-screen.
It was a little after two when Felicia sighed and pushed away from the wall.
"Great picking on the locals with you, Cat," she said. "I'm going to find Canh and head out. See ya in class on Monday."
"Yeah, sure," I replied, and shrugged. "Probably head home soon myself."
"Alone?" Her look turned sly.
"Yeah." I frowned, but bit back the rest of the words: I don't want to meet someone here, and take them back to my place. It's my place. It's not open for public viewing.
"Chill," she murmured, and patted me on the shoulder. "Walk safe."
"Same," I called, watching the change in her normally strong walk, now a positive strut from the high heels combined with graceful legs. She was attractive, no doubt, and heads turned as she passed, that dark skin gleaming under the lights, the raised chin and confident smile adding to the sexiness. Yeah, she was sexy, but I didn't feel like she, or anyone else, would ever be someone I'd want to bring back to my place. It just didn't feel right.
I left about ten minutes later, too bored to bother fighting my way to the keg for a sixth beer when the first five had done little other than make me need to piss, and badly. It took several minutes before I got into the bathroom, and half of that time was spent pushing Vin and the unnamed blonde out of the way.
Bladder empty and stomach growling for a midnight snack, I evaded several girls' attempts to waylay me about classes we shared, or that I shared with a friend of theirs. It was Saturday, at almost two-thirty in the morning, and I really couldn't see the point in discussing economic theory with a girl swaying on her feet. I thanked each politely, made my excuses, and stepped out into the September night.
It was probably an eight-block walk, and once I was at the corner, away from the old apartment building, most of the foot traffic had thinned out. It felt odd to be out, that late, without cold metal resting at the base of my spine, but at least I knew how to walk like I was carrying. A bit of a drag on the right foot, a heavier step, and I hunched my shoulders so my jacket stood out at the back.
I was two blocks from my place when I saw Canh and Felicia up ahead of me. Felicia was bending over, fiddling with the strap on her heels and cussing a blue streak, while Canh looked on with a long-suffering expression. He saw me and waved, and I couldn't help but grin as I walked up.
"You sure those are worth being three inches taller? Still only made you what... five-nine?" I dodged when Felicia came bolt upright and tried to swat me.
The feint and twist away from her hand was what distracted me, I think. When I turned to face her again, she was staring away from me, her eyes wide. There was a gun leveled at her nose, about a foot away. Canh had frozen, his hands raised halfway.
"Gimme your wallet, bitch!" The guy glanced over at Canh. "You, too, college boy!"
I scanned the sidewalk past the three, and realized the guy must've stepped right out of the shadows behind Felicia. And I hadn't even noticed someone was standing there. I felt like an idiot. The gun wavered, and I started to feel like an annoyed idiot.
I was halfway between Canh and Felicia, facing the guy, whose gun was within my reach. I wasn't five-foot-two anymore, and I didn't have the innocent look on my side, if I ever had. But I did have better reflexes, and I could only hope the guy with the gun didn't.
"Lower your gun," I told him, in a flat tone, "and you'll walk away."
"Gimme your money," he barked, "and you'll live."
"Oh, please," I retorted. At the same instant, I grabbed the barrel of the gun, grabbing it around the stock. Twisting against his wrist, I ripped the gun from his hands. I flipped the gun and leveled the barrel on him.
"You should've listened," I told him. The guy blinked, staring at the gun, then me, clearly uncertain how it had happened. I flipped the gun again, stepped forward, and smashed the butt against his forehead.
He hit the ground with a soft cry.
Canh was staring at me wide-eyed, and Felicia still hadn't taken her eyes off the gun. At least one of them knows where the attention should be, I told myself, and sighed.
"You two, go on home," I said, very softly. "I'll take care of this."
"Cat," Felicia whispered, her eyes still on the gun.
She hesitated, unwilling or unable to move. I spared a glance at Canh, who looked like he'd been the one to get hit upside the head.
"Take him home," I ordered in the coldest tone I could manage. It startled her out of her fright, and Canh jerked as well.
"See you in class," Felicia said, and the next second she and Canh had stepped around the guy's huddled figure, and were hurrying off down the sidewalk.
I waited until they had disappeared around the corner before I crouched down next to the guy. He flinched, and I amused myself by dismantling his gun while waiting for him to raise his head.
"What are you doing," he asked, his eyes wide.
"Checking it out," I replied. "Nice piece. Don't seem to have much of a clue how to use it, though." I quickly reassembled it, feeling the pieces slide and click into place beneath my fingers, but kept my eyes on him the whole time. A thumbnail's pressure in the right places, the spring shifted, and I was finished. His gaze was darting between me, and the gun, and back again. I considered all my options in the space of a heartbeat, and made my decision.
I twirled the gun on my finger, letting it fall with a snap into the palm of my hand, butt towards him.
"Who the fuck are you," he asked, and didn't raise his hand to take the gun.
"Cat," I said. "And if you see me, you leave me alone. And if you see me with someone, you leave us alone. And if you see someone that you'd seen with me, even if I'm not there, you leave them alone. Got all that?"
"Uh... " He swallowed hard, and I held the gun out towards him. His eyes narrowed, and I had to up my respect for him somewhere above roaches, but still far below the average Oz enlisted man. "How do you know I won't take the gun back and shoot you?"
"Because first, I've got no money, so that's a bullet spent that didn't get you shit," I replied. "And second, because if you don't kill me with the first shot, you won't even live long enough to mourn your mistake."
He took the gun with shaking fingers, and I stood up, backing away a step. The closer look told me he was probably a boy, no older than I'd been when I'd gone off to war. The comparison made me ache, and I watched with a flat expression while he tucked the gun away, nodded nervously, and slipped into the alleyway. I waited until I could hear his footsteps fading into the distance, and then I headed home.
On Sunday, I worked up my nerve to ask about the job while dying my hair. I couldn't remember which color I'd used before, and only once I got home and compared boxes did I realize it was a coppery brown, not the darker color I'd picked out before. I decided that hair could always grow out, or I could shave my head... so I threw the directions away, and played like I was fingerpainting. When I washed it out, all the blond roots were covered, and my hair was tri-colored. It made me grin, unexpectedly.
I decided that Monday, before engineering I'd stop by and see Dr. Robinson. He seemed like someone approachable, though I only spoke in class every now and then. I'd done two problems at the board, but I hadn't really volunteered. I wondered if that would count against me.
Monday morning I once again went through my daily anxiety attack about clothes. I had it narrowed down, over the previous weeks, into a ten-second pause of fidgeting before I gave up and grabbed anything based on two criteria. One, whether it was relatively clean - or at least, didn't stink too badly - and two, whether it was in arm's reach; that Monday, this process meant I ended up wearing a hooded sweatshirt and the least dirty pair of blue jeans. Shoving my feet in my boots and not bothering to lace them, I trudged off to campus, still yawning.
Dr. Robinson was in his office. He was a thin man with wire-rim frames and a nervous demeanor that I'd finally figured out wasn't because he was truly nervous. He just had too much brain to fit into one skull, and the pressure must have made him jumpy. His lectures drove everyone else crazy, thanks to his tangents and long pauses, but I enjoyed it. I could see where he was moving from thought to thought, even if it was something that wouldn't have occurred to me until he pointed it out.
"Dr. Robinson?" I leaned in through the door, and gave him my best shy smile.
"Ah... you're in my Introduction to Quantum Physics?" He frowned, then, and shook his head. "No, wait... okay, I give up."
"Cat," I said, taking the seat next to his desk. "I'm in Amplified Physics."
"Third seat from the left, on the second tier." Dr. Robinson nodded, and the light flashed off his glasses. "Having trouble with the homework?"
"No." I could feel the real shyness bubble up. What the hell was I doing? Me? Getting a technical position in the lab? I kicked the worries back down and tried to appear confident without looking too self-important. "I wanted to know about the student position for lab technician."
"Lab technician," he murmured, and dug around on his desk. "Filled Friday afternoon, I think. They go fast." He kept rooting around in the papers, and I realized he wasn't looking for the listing, but for a pen. I pulled one out from under the nearest stack and handed it to him. "There it is. Thanks. My pens wander off all the time." He began marking up a paper, and glanced at me, as if surprised I was still there. "I think Sam left a note this morning one of the proctors had to quit, but you're a sophomore, right? I don't know if you'd qualify for that."
"Proctor," I repeated, unsure.
"De facto professor in the lab, able to answer general questions, some more technical ones." Dr. Robinson waved his hand, and the pen went flying. He looked surprised, and gave me an exasperated look. "See? My pens rebel, all the time."
"I could proctor," I said. I swallowed hard, and hoped he didn't notice.
"You have a resume, or a CV?"
"CV," I repeated, a bit weakly. "Uh... not really."
"Ever taught before?"
Does showing Duo how to install a makeshift gyro replacement out of desert tractor parts count? Does educating Heero on the intricacies of the Zero programming and hardware system mean anything? And if it did, would I say anything?
I glanced around the professor's office, noting the picture of a young man in military uniform. I stared at it for a long second before realizing the young man was in Alliance dress. No, this would not be the place to mention Gundams. I gave Dr. Robinson a tight smile.
"Not in any formal way, sir," I said.
"Well, you would need to show that you grasp the basics, and you've only had one class with me. I think you're doing okay, but we've not had midterms yet. Why don't you apply next spring? New positions are always open at the beginning of the semester."
I nodded, almost ready to accept defeat. Movement caught my eye out the office door. Several students were lined up, notebooks and texts in hand. I frowned, considering them carefully, and came to my feet.
"Dr. Robinson," I said, as politely as I could manage, hoping he didn't crush me right then and there. "I think you have three students waiting. If I can answer their questions to their satisfaction and yours, would that be good enough?"
The professor blinked, stared at his paper, then looked up at me, seemingly startled to hear a voice when he must've thought I'd already left. He frowned thoughtfully, leaning over to see into the hallway.
"Oh, what the hell," he muttered, waving his right hand. The pen went flying from his hand, hit the wall, and skittered behind a filing cabinet. Dr. Robinson began patting his chest, looking for another pen in one of his pocket. I dug my own pen from my pocket and handed it to him. "Thanks," he said, bending over the papers again. "Yeah, do whatever, and we'll see."
I grinned at his balding head, and walked into the hallway. "You three. Let's hear your questions. I'm going to help you find the answers."
An hour and three student recommendations later, I had a job. Yes, I talked my way into it, but still, it wasn't like I got it because of who I was related to, or who I knew. It was because of what I knew.
I went to Structural Engineering, and I don't think my feet hit the ground the entire twenty-minute walk.
"You just took it... like that," Felicia repeated. We were sitting outside after class, having managed to successfully ditch Lola for once. Felicia hadn't looked me in the eyes all class, but no one else was acting differently, so I hoped that meant she hadn't seen fit to tell them all she'd nearly been mugged at gun-point.
"Yeah. Safety was on," I said, wondering if that would relieve the shock still radiating from her, two days later.
"How did you know?" She ran a hand over her thick hair, poking it behind her ears, and gave me a stern look. "It was dark, and you barely had time to look."
"I just knew," I told her, and sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."
"You didn't," she replied, relenting. "It's just... I know there's violence, and I know it's a bad neighborhood, but I've never been held at gunpoint before. Got mugged twice my sophomore year, but that was at knifepoint. It's... it's not the same." She sighed.
"No, I guess not." I leaned back on the brick wall, and curled my fingers around the back edge, drumming idly as I contemplated the idea in my head. "I still think you should get a gun."
"Cat, stop!" Felicia came the closest to squeaking I'd ever heard. I almost laughed, but her look darkened and I knew if I even cracked a smile she'd swat me again. "I'm not saying it again! I don't know how to shoot. I've never even held a gun!"
"Chicks with guns, sexy," Chip drawled, appearing beside Felicia. He dropped his bag on the ground and plopped down next to her. "What did I miss in class?"
"Major pop quiz," Felicia replied without missing a beat. "Worth twenty-percent of our grade."
"Fuck," Chip said, sagging. There was a pause, and he sat upright again, leaning past Felicia to look at me. I nodded solemnly, and his eyes went almost impossibly wide. Unfortunately, Felicia chose that moment to laugh, and Chip scowled. "Bastards, both of you."
"I'm no bastard," Felicia replied. "Do I look like I've got a dick?"
"Hope not, or Canh's in for a surprise when you give up your virtue." Chip grinned smugly, then yelped as Felicia smacked him in the arm. Recovering, he rubbed his arm and gave her a slightly more serious look. "So what's this about you buying a gun?"
"For her protection," I said. "She needs to learn to shoot, too, but I don't know where around here—"
"At the range, just on the other side of Twenty-first, past the subway station," Chip said, and grinned widely. "My uncle used to work across the street from there. If you don't mind being side-by-side with cops, you could go there." He frowned, and scratched the back of his head. "I guess. I don't know if they let in people who aren't cops."
"I'll find out," I promised Felicia, who nodded, but looked worried. I gave her a small smile, the one I used when I wanted to look sympathetic, and she relaxed a little. "Don't worry. I'm not going to push a gun in your hand and let you walk out without knowing how to use it. If I do that, I might as well put a gun in someone else's hands to use on you, because that's where it'll end up."
"Okay, Cat," Felicia said, but she looked intimidated. Chip, meanwhile, looked fascinated.
"This is 'cause of that friend you've got in Preventers, right?"
"Uh, kind of," I said, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden.
"I think we should make a day of it," Chip announced. "Get Lola and Lisa, and Mike, and Vin if he's up to it." Chip nudged Felicia with his shoulder. "That way you won't feel like you're wearing a big sign that says you're new to it. Always better to learn with other fools, so you won't stand out as much."
I thought Felicia was going to melt at the unexpected insight from our class clown. "Yeah, if Cat... "
She glanced at me, and I shrugged, but inside I was wishing I could come up with a damn good reason to keep it a private deal. I couldn't, not without really sounding like I had something to hide. I did my best to shrug, with a nonchalant air.
"Okay, then," Felicia told Chip. "Some Saturday coming up, maybe?"
"I'm free on most Saturdays," I said. I knew Felicia knew it was true, but I wish it weren't. Going to a shooting range with that many people, and me... I squashed down my instinctive reaction. I could tell Felicia was getting tense next to me; perhaps she was starting to wonder if my dampened enthusiasm was because I'd changed my mind. I suspected she probably would have been relieved to hear me call it off, but I'd just spent a half-hour trying to convince her. It would definitely look strange now if I started whistling something different.
"Anytime after one is good for me," Chip agreed. "I'll talk to Mike and Vin, Felicia, you get Lisa and Lola. And Cat, you get us guns."
"The range may provide those," I said, amused at the idea of myself as a gun smuggler, selling bootleg ammunition on campus. Now that would be a twist. I spent a year purchasing bootleg. Wouldn't it be fitting to turn around and sell it?
"You're the man," Chip said, standing. "And I'm hungry! Can I get your notes later, when we meet?"
"Yeah," I said, sighing deeply. Chip grinned, and I made a mental note that I'd need to copy and cover my most recent sketches. I'd done one of Lisa falling asleep in class, and I doubted she'd appreciate me handing such material over into Chip's corrupted paws.
He trotted off, and I was about to follow when Felicia's hand caught my arm. Her dark brown eyes were troubled, and she licked her lips before speaking. I waited, sensing her frustration and worry.
"The gun you took," she whispered. "What did you do with it?"
"Gave it back to him."
"You... " Her eyes went wide, and her mouth fell open. "What the fuck did you do that for?"
I looked away from her, across the broad courtyard filled with chatting students. All of them going about their business, seemingly carefree except for simple worries like the next party or upcoming midterms. The dark night -- streetlight reflected down a gun barrel -- seemed distant, almost as foreign as my own history. I returned my gaze to Felicia, unwilling to explain.
"No," she said, and tugged firmly on my arm. I tore it out of her grasp, backing up a step. She followed, insistent. "You gave it back---"
"He had the safety on, and didn't know it. Plus I bent the spring, so the gun will misfire half the time," I said. "But a gun is easily four hundred credits, maybe five, and that's if he got it used. Thieves may take what they want, but they're remarkably protective of their own belongings." I thought of Duo, griping about Deathscythe, and sighed. "If I'd taken it, me, you, and Canh could've expected retaliation."
She blinked, and dropped her hand. "He could come back at you anyway, for humiliating him."
"That's a risk, but less of a risk than if I'd kept the gun for myself." I pushed my bag higher on my shoulder, and attempted a smile. "Lunch?"
"You should be more careful, Cat," Felicia sighed.
"I am," I promised her. Wasn't I being careful already, to choose the course that would be most likely to get us out alive, and left in peace? I didn't know how to explain, and I didn't really want to even try. If she knew that much about me, wouldn't that change everything?
When the phone rang two nights later, at first I was confused by the sound. When I realized what it was, it took me several minutes to find it. Collapsing into a crouch where I'd located it, I answered somewhat breathlessly.
"Hello?"
"Quatre?" Iria sounded worried. "Are you busy? Is this a bad time?"
"No, not busy," I replied, delighted to hear from her, and almost as delighted, strangely, to hear my own name. I had thought about calling, but the cost of a card to cover the dirtside-to-spaceball transmission was way beyond my current budget. I wasn't willing to break out of that frame just to touch base, so I'd been settling for short emails every other week or so. "Just had to find the phone."
"Buried under homework?" She laughed.
"Uh... " I knew I was blushing. I could feel my ears getting hot. "Actually, no. It was kind of under dirty clothes."
"Kind of," Iria repeated, in a flat tone, "under dirty clothes."
"Yeah," I said, scratching the back of my head, abashed. I realized I was doing that, and dropped my hand, which only made me feel more self-conscious. "I've been meaning to do laundry, but... "
Iria cleared her throat. "Excuse me, but do I really have the correct Quatre Winner?"
"Hunh?"
"Little brother, I've seen your room on L4 and in Sanq, and your hotel rooms, and you never have a single thing out of place. I want to know who kidnapped you and replaced you with an inexact replica."
"Uh, see... " I squirmed, and swore at myself under my breath. "I've been busy."
"I see." Iria chuckled, and said in a knowing tone, "Oh... busy social life?"
"I guess." I leaned back against the wall, and kicked my pile of laundry out of the way, stretching out my legs. "I'm at the library all day Saturday and Saturdays night I hang out with some guys from my classes, and have study sessions on Fridays and Sundays, and during the week—"
"That's not what I meant. Studying doesn't—"
"I got a job," I added, quickly.
"A job... " Iria brightened, forgetting her previous line of thought. "Congratulations! What are you doing?"
"I'm a proctor in the laser labs," I said, certain I sounded proud of myself, but figured it was okay this one time. "I start on Monday."
"A proctor," Iria said, and sighed. "Oh, I'd better not let Alayah or Jasmine know. They'll have fits, won't they."
She laughed again, and I joined her. Those two were among the seven who'd taken over the Winner conglomerate, and Alayah had been my so-called direct boss since the Eve Wars. I'm sure as soon as the news broke I was going back to school, they'd built little shrines to the stock market god that I'd take business classes.
"Don't tell them, then," I said, hoping I didn't sound like I was begging. "I rather like this low-key peaceful life. I don't need them picking on me about what I'm up to."
"Does that mean I can't come for a visit?"
"A... " I blinked, and looked around my one-room apartment. "I don't really have room for—"
"I'd stay in a hotel, silly, but I'd love to see your place."
"It's not that grand," I hedged. "And it's a bit messy."
"You have four days to clean it up," Iria told me. "Unless you're hiding something... "
"No!" I sat up straight, and then scowled. "Stop making me feel like I'm fifteen again."
Iria laughed. "Just pulling your leg. I have a conference in March that will bring me planet-side. So you have six months to clean up, or move to a new address and hope I can't track you down."
"Thanks," I replied, dryly. "I'm packing now."
"You do that," she said, wished me well in my job, spun a quick Arabic phrase past my ears, and hung up.
The weekend before midterms, and we'd finally arranged for lanes at the shooting range, and everyone's schedule was clear. I'd studied with my various study groups over the previous week, making sure I had time, and I'd talked my way into getting Sam to trade with me at the laser lab.
Truth was, the laser lab was fun, at first, but I was finding myself more and more bored. I liked helping people, and Sam was there to help me when I needed it, too, but... I couldn't put my finger on it. I just didn't feel inspired to get up and go in the morning shifts, or to trudge there after classes on Tuesday and Thursday. Three weeks of working twenty hours a week, and I was already bored? Had I gotten so used to being lazy over the first four weeks of school that I'd forgotten what a job was all about?
A job was something, I kept telling myself, that you do because it's what you're supposed to do. It can be hectic or mind-numbingly bland, but if it's your job, you paste a smile on your face and you do it.
But at the same time, I couldn't deny that something very small, deep down where I wouldn't usually admit it, was telling me to say to hell with it. To thank Dr. Robinson and Sam, and move along, perhaps back to not working, perhaps to something else. The problem was two-fold: I didn't know what else I could do, and I didn't know why I didn't want to do this. The first, I could figure out; the second, I had to know before I quit. Without a damn good reason, I couldn't justify leaving something that gave me extra pocket money and meant I could splurge at the bodega on a candy bar.
I set those thoughts aside and spread out my towel as a catch for the gun oil. The once-yellow towel was now stained with hair dye from my two messy adventures, and I'd designated it the mess towel. A few more stains wouldn't harm it at this point. Dismantling the Ruger, I cleaned each piece carefully and pieced it back together, then took it apart again and reassembled, testing myself for speed. Satisfied I hadn't lost my touch, I slammed the magazine home, checked the safety, and shoved it in the holster at the back of my jeans.
The last thing I did was stare at my new jeans jacket. It looked like a regular black jacket from the front, but the back panel was emblazoned with a painting of a jaguar's paw, claws extended, as if appearing from shadows. Felicia and her roommate Kerry had talked me into buying it at the student bazaar, but I hadn't worn it, protesting it wasn't cold enough yet. The season was moving into late September. The rattling windowpanes meant it was windy, so I slipped the jacket on, twitching with the cuffs until I kicked myself out of my apartment.
At the foot of the stairs, my landlady was busy watering one of the plants by the door. It was gorgeous, and I'd assumed it was fake. Francesca leaned back to smile up at me, being all of about five-foot-one. It amused me to think that three years before, we would've been eye-to-eye.
"Cat," she said, "going out?"
"Yes, ma'am," I replied, automatically slipping into my best behavior. She was ninety, if a day. Living that many years in a neighborhood like this demanded respect, as far as I was concerned. She had to be tougher than Gundaniam.
"Where are your books?" Francesca tsked, her eyes disappearing in a wreath of fine wrinkles. "Hard to study without them. Midterms coming up."
"I'm ready," I assured her, then paused. "Actually... what's the best way to get to Twenty-first and Irving, past the subway station? I was given direction by the road, not for walking."
"Right out the door, four blocks, and cut through the back of the shopping center. That gets you around the interchange with route 75." She explained the rest of the directions, then paused, staring at me with narrowed eyes. "Going to the police station? You in trouble?"
"Ah," I backed up quickly. "No, ma'am, just teaching a friend how to shoot."
"Female friend?" Francesca's smile grew wider, and I wondered why everyone always got that look when they asked that question.
"Yes, but just a friend," I said. I checked my watch. "I've got to go."
"Stay safe," she called, and I waved over my shoulder as I left.
The range was large and clean, with an excellent ventilation system. I let the clerk check my gun, paid my share of the group cost, and went to meet my classmates. They'd arrived an hour earlier for the introductory safety class, and even catching only the end I was impressed with the teacher's thorough approach. Felicia was looking far less nervous than she had when we'd discussed it the day before, and Lola was staring open-mouthed as the man demonstrated grip and posture. Lisa was nodding seriously, while Chip was busy staring at Lisa. Vin yawned and waved. Mike barely noticed I was there, too focused on the teacher.
As beginners, they'd been assigned spotters, and we were broken into three sets of two, with me spotting for Lola and Felicia. One of the spotters was the manager, and the same guy I'd spoken to on the phone.
"Cat, right?" He stuck out his hand, and we shook, and he squinted at me. "You sounded older on the phone. Look awfully young for the experience you listed."
And I didn't even list half, I thought, and shrugged.
"We're in your group," Lola announced, as the class ended. She stuck her arm through mine, but the manager stopped her.
"I want to see him shoot, first," the manager informed her. He gave me another suspicious look, and I sighed, following him to the range.
I put on the provided ear protection and eye protection, mentally rolling my eyes at the fact that neither was second nature to me. Pulling out my gun, I racked the slide, braced myself, and fired off three rounds.
The first shot went clean through the target's center before I caught myself. I hoped the guy didn't notice the half-heartbeat of hesitation before I put one shot several inches to the left, and another slightly above. Checking the gun and setting the safety, I reholstered it before hitting the switch to bring the target paper up to the stand.
"Not bad," the manager said, while I pulled down the paper.
He stared at the first shot, the bullseye, just long enough to make me know he hadn't missed the fact that I purposefully let the other shots go wide. I waited from him to say something, but he didn't, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Lola was too busy squealing about my magnificent aim, and fortunately that seemed to cover the awkward silence between the manager and myself.
"I'll be with those two." He jerked his head at Chip and Lisa, waiting behind us. "Chris is helping the two guys." The manager left for his own lane; I turned to find Felicia and Lola, ear and eye protection already in place, and both looking as eager as if I'd promised chocolate and ice cream.
"Me first," Felicia said, stepping right up. She opened the metal box with the range's loaner .45, and her fingers hovered over it for a second before gingerly lifting it up. "First, I check... safety. The safety is... " She stared at the side of the gun.
"That thing," Lola offered, pointing.
"Safety is on," Felicia announced loudly, making sure to point the gun down, towards the table. "And next... I... "
"Drop the mag," I told her, and grinned. I hit the button for the new target paper to move along the line, stopping it at twenty feet distance. "That's the—"
"Magazine," Felicia said. She grimaced, then squeezed tighter, almost yelping when the magazine dropped out from the bottom of the gun's handle. I caught it, and handed it to her with a smile. She set it down on the table, as delicately as possible before studying the gun again. "And now I rack the slide."
"I like that phrase," Lola whispered. "Rack the slide."
"Shut up, I'm thinking here," Felicia retorted.
I leaned against the lane's barrier wall, watching intently, correcting her as needed and the rest of the time giving her space to do everything at her own speed. Felicia turned out to have decent aim. Once she'd gotten past flinching with every shot, she settled her hands down on the wrist mat and fired off several quick shots.
After her, Lola went, equally intimidated but just as fast to get the hang of it, and I switched to the body outline target sheets. I demurred when they asked if I wanted to have a go, but they didn't protest too much, which made me chuckle behind them.
We'd been there almost an hour, working our way through a number of target sheets – all of which both women insisted they were saving. I noticed Lisa and Chip seemed to be doing well, and over on the fifth lane, it appeared Vin was a natural at crack shots, while Mike flailed too much when he pulled the trigger. I kept most of my attention on Felicia and Lola, showing them different stances and letting them get completely comfortable with the firearm.
"Backseat shooter," a dry voice said behind me, and I stiffened. I knew that voice, but just as quickly discounted it. There was no way.
"I'm spotting," I said, without looking around.
"Or maybe you've lost your touch," came the answer, and the man stepped up beside me. I glanced to the side, and had to take a deep breath to regain my composure.
"Yuy. You're a long way from home."
He shrugged. "I was in the neighborhood."
I leaned against the barrier, keeping my voice low so Felicia and Lola didn't hear. They were discussing the stance I'd just shown them. The gun was on the table, magazine ejected, and the two were pantomiming the stance, then turning around and trying to mock-aim with their less predominant hand.
"How did you find me?" I slanted a look sideways at him.
"Talkative landlady." He was a few inches shorter than me, and that familar dark brown tousled mop of hair masked his eyes. I caught a flash of blue as he glanced at me, then at the two young women.
Felicia turned around and smiled widely at me. "Come'on, Cat, have a go," she coaxed.
"I'm spotting," I reminded her.
"I can do that," Heero said. "Go on."
"No, really, I'm—"
"You got a bullseye on one of your shots," Lola interrupted. She pointed at the rolls of used targets, neatly rubber-banded. "I bet you could do it again if you tried."
"Out of how many?" Heero glanced at the target sheets, and back at Lola.
"Three," she answered, her brow crinkling in mild confusion. "Cat?"
"Nothing," I said, wishing there was a polite way to ask Heero what the hell he was doing in Chicago. Not exactly high on the list of Preventers hang-outs.
"Three, and only one bullseye." Heero snorted, glaring at Lola and Felicia until they backed out of the shooting area and into the open stretch behind the lanes. He stepped forward, put his thumb on the lane button, sending the unused target sheet all the way to the back of the range. He glanced at me, and arched an eyebrow before the expression faded into the one I remembered on Sandrock's screens. He didn't bother with the protective gear, ignoring Felicia when she started to take off her headset to offer it to him.
One smooth move of unholster, cock, and fire. He emptied the entire magazine into the target one-handed. The slide popped open as the last bullet flew, and Heero ejected the magazine and tucked the gun away. He hit the lane button, and the paper swayed as it was pulled forward.
I nearly growled. I should back down, I told myself, but Heero had come into my lane, with my friends present, and just shown me up. Some stupidly masculine part of myself remembered the awe I'd once held for him – and still did – and was furious he couldn't have the decency to give me the same respect. At least the courtesy to call first, rather than show up and throw down the gauntlet. I kept my hands in my pockets, and glared right back at him.
He ripped down the paper target and tossed it aside, but it was enough for me to confirm there were five shots through the head, and another five through the heart. No scatter pattern. He set up another target paper, glancing once over his shoulder at me. It infuriated me, and I narrowed my eyes. His lips twisted into that smirk I remembered so well. I'd never had it turned on me full-bore, though, and I didn't like it in the least.
"Get out of my way, Yuy," I snarled. His eyes went wide momentarily, but he stepped back with a nod. Pulling out my Ruger, I ejected the magazine and grabbed three bullets from the box on the table. I reloaded the magazine, slammed it home and turned to Heero.
I held out my hand, and one of his eyebrows quirked. He hesitated a half-second, then nodded curtly, and unholstered his gun. A second magazine appeared from the inner pocket of his Preventers jacket; he jammed it home, racked the slide, and held out the gun, butt-first. I pulled out my own gun, flipped off the safety and racked the slide before taking his as well. Turning to face the target, I brought up the guns and fired. I didn't need to aim anymore than he had. My hands and body and mind told the bullets where to go.
Four bullets flew, and the target's kneecaps were destroyed.
Four bullets pulverized the target's shoulders.
Two more shots from each gun, and the target's hips were shattered.
Two shots, four bullets, straight into the target's head.
And the last four bullets were centered on the target's heart.
The slides flew open as the last bullets hit. I spun, still angry, and flipped his gun so it was butt-first. My own I reholstered with the same well-learned action he'd used. Heero smiled, and took his gun from me, popping out the empty magazine and tucking it away with the other. He ignored the two girls standing behind him, gaping, and I did my best to do so as well. I didn't expect him to invite me for coffee – hell, I didn't expect him to visit – but this? I felt played, but I couldn't blame him. I could've just said no, but damn it... I wasn't sure if I wanted to swear at him, or my own damn pride.
I still hadn't said anything, though I managed to keep my fists from clenching. Even I've never been suicidal enough to make such an obvious confrontational move towards someone with Heero's skills. I'd done enough, I hoped, then realized Heero's smile had faded. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. The uncharacteristic hesitation caught me off-guard long enough to really look at him, but all I could feel were waves of confusion in the wrinkle in his brow, the flex of his left hand, hanging at his side. He dropped his eyes, masking that sterling blue for a second in his classic implied bow, turned on his heel, and strode from the range.
Damn it, Yuy, I thought, watching his unbroken stride from the firing range. He didn't look back, and somehow that hurt more than his unspoken taunt with the target paper. What the hell was he playing at? I was growling again, and bit back the sound when I noticed Felicia and Lola staring at me, wide-eyed. Chip popped his head out of his lane, and whistled.
"Remind me not to piss you off," he said, his awed whisper almost lost under the gunfire from the other lanes. "Fuck, man, you can shoot."
I dropped my head, looking down at the gun in my hand.
"Not really," I muttered, wrapping my hand around the grip, the metal warm from my fury. "Just lucky, I guess."
End Part 2
(:./sol/worst2)
