DEV1AT3 (Deviate)

by Jay Kristoff

  Leaving him to fall. Alone.

  But that’s what this world was in the end, right?

  One where only the strong survived?

  Heaving a sigh, Lemon crawled out of bed, pulled on her cargos and socks, and snuck across the room on tiptoe. As she crept out into the hallway, she saw Grimm poke his head out from his dorm, eyes bleary from sleep.

  “All right?” he mumbled. “Heard you yelling.”

  “I’m all right,” she whispered. “Bad dream.”

  “I know what those are like,” he nodded. “Need anythin’?”

  She shook her head. “I’m Robin Hood, thanks.”

  The boy smiled, and Lemon looked at him standing there in the gloom. He was wearing nothing but his shorts, the dim light carving deep shadows on the curves and furrows of his bare shoulders and chest. She realized she was gawping, and dragged her eyes back up to his. Grimm just smiled a little wider, those big brown eyes framed by long dark lashes, sparkling like dark jewels. Warm and deep.

  It made her feel nice, the way this boy looked at her. It made her tingle, all the way to her toes. It felt like he saw all of her. Not just the braveface and the streetface she put on for the world. She felt like she didn’t need to hide who she was around Grimm. She didn’t need to pretend. When he looked at her, it felt like he saw the person underneath, and she could tell how much he liked it. She found herself wanting to know more about him—who he was, where he’d come from, how he’d managed to stay as sure and gentle as he seemed to be.

  But she had things to do.

  He looked about them, sweet in his awkwardness, obviously searching for something to say. He finally noticed the boots in her hands, the socks on her feet. He met her eyes again, concern shining in their depths.

  “You goin’ somewhere?”

  “Just the little badasses’ room. Floor’s cold down there.”

  He nodded and yawned, running his hand over his scalp, and Lemon furiously avoided watching the lean muscles at play in his arm, turning her eyes to her socks instead. Blushing here would be out of the question.

  “Look, sorry you can’t come with us tonight, yeah?” Grimm said. “I know this bot’s your friend and all.”

  She met his eyes then. “He’s more than a friend, Grimm. He’s family.”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “I get it.”

  “…You really do, don’t you?” she realized.

  He smiled again. “I know it’s hard to sit on the sidelines. I remember how frustratin’ it was when I was first learning how to control my gift. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, yeah?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Lemon said. “I remember my Darwin.”

  “Recon work can be real dangerous,” Grimm said. “The Major’s made the right call. He knows what he’s doing, he knows how to win this war better than any of us. And he’s led us this far.” Grimm reached out, touched her shoulder, warm and steady. “Stay here, train up. You’ll be running with us in no time.”

  “I know.” She nodded slowly, sucked her bottom lip. “And thanks. About looking for Cricket, I mean.”

  The boy shrugged. “Major’s orders. Think he’s got a soft spot for ya.”

  She smiled weakly. “When you heading out?”

  “Around sunset. We’ll be gone before you get up.” He gave her a wink. “Keep the light on for us, yeah?”

  She nodded, wished him goodnight, and with one last lingering look, Grimm turned and headed back to bed. Lemon waited until she heard his mattress creak, his movements cease. She was definitely not thinking about him lying there in nothing but his shorts. Nope. No pretty shirtless boys here, folks, thanks for asking.

  After a few minutes had passed in silence, Lemon finally stole down the stairs. Diesel was supposed to be sitting watch in the common room, but instead, she was sprawled on the couch with Fix, sharing a kiss that measured about 7.9 on the Richter scale. Lemon tiptoed over to the outer hatch, twisted the handle, wincing as it softly creaked. But glancing over her shoulder, she saw Fix and Diesel were totally oblivious.

  Opening the hatch, she slipped quietly through. And still in her socks, she snuck up the stairs, and out into the burning daylight.

  * * *

  ________

  “This is such a shiny load of crap,” Diesel sighed.

  “Oi,” Grimm said, raising a finger in warning. “Swear jar.”

  The sun was setting to the west, fluorescent lights flickering on the ceiling of Miss O’s garage. Night would soon be falling, and the trio of freaks were busy prepping for their run. Grimm and Diesel were loading gear into the back of Trucky McTruckface—vests, helmets, bandoliers of assault gear and a couple of rifles, tossing them onto the backseat. The freaks had vehicles of their own, of course, but going out into enemy turf wearing enemy colors was a smarter play.

  “Seriously,” Diesel said. “Why are we doing this? We’re risking our tailpipes because the Major’s new grandsprog lost her pet robot?”

  “What you askin’ me for?” Grimm asked. “I’m the looks, not the brains.”

  “I’m the looks,” Diesel said. “And the brains. You’re just ballast, Grimmy.”

  “Major must think it’s important.” Fix shrugged, fueling the rig. “Wouldn’t be sending us out there with the funkin’ Brotherhood on the warpath otherwise.”

  “What the Major thinks is important and what is important aren’t always the same,” Diesel said. “Remember that time he sent us looking for toner cartridges?”

  “Who could forget?” Grimm sighed. “Took us six days to find some.”

  They finished loading the gear, and Grimm jumped into the driver’s seat with Diesel riding shotgun. They motored up the ramp to the desert outside, and Fix hauled the doors closed behind them, covered the garage with the tarp. The Major waited for them in the deepening sunset light.

  “Evening, soldiers.”

  “All right, sir?” Grimm asked.

  The old man looked among the trio with cold eyes. “I want the three of you to remember this mission is strictly recon. If you encounter Brotherhood, take note of numbers and disposition, then retreat. They’ll be looking to settle scores after what you lot pulled in New Bethlehem, and I don’t want bullet holes in any of you when you get back here. No heroics, just heroes. Is that understood?”

  “Yessir,” Fix replied, jumping into the truck.

  “No fear, sir,” Grimm said. “The whole ‘Live fast, die young’ thing never sat well with me. I’d rather live long, die rich.”

  “Very well, then.” The old man nodded. “Good hunting.”

  The Major thumped a fist on the truck’s flank, and Grimm planted his foot, monster tires tearing up the dirt as they peeled out.

  They headed north through the badlands, the sun falling slowly away to the west. Long shadows slunk over the desert sands as they drove, a thin trail of blood-red dust whipped up behind them, smooth and serpentine. Ten minutes or so passed without a word before Grimm finally piped up.

  “I spy,” he declared.

  Diesel moaned. “Do we have to?”

  “It’s ten hours to the Clefts. You wanna ride all that way in moody silence?”

  Diesel produced a black memchit from her cargos, marked with a skull and crossbones. “I brought some tunes.”

  “Baby, you know I love you,” Fix said from the backseat. “But there’s no funkin’ way anything you listen to could be accused of havin’ a tune.”

  “Eyyyy, three points!” Grimm grinned, bumping fists with the bigger boy.

  “Eat a dick,” the girl said flatly. “A big bag of them.”

  “Swear jar, baby,” Fix protested.

  “I spy!” Grimm shouted. “With my little eye! Something beginning with D.”

  “Dicks,” Diesel said. “Big bag. Much for the eating, yes.”

&
nbsp; “Swear jar!” Grimm and Fix sang.

  Diesel folded her arms and pouted. “I hate you both.”

  “Come onnnn!” Grimm said. “Beginning with D.”

  Fix looked out the window, scratching his concrete-hard quiff.

  “…Desert?”

  “Eyyyyy­yyyyy­, three points!” Grimm cried, bumping fists again.

  “Desert?” Diesel demanded. “Seriously? That was your pick?”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “We’re surrounded by it.” The girl gestured wildly. “It is literally in every direction you look. The object of the game is to make it hard to guess, Grimm.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “Oh my god.”

  “My turn!” Fix declared, tapping his lip and pouting in thought. “I spy with my little eye…something beginning with…B.”

  “Boobs,” Diesel said immediately.

  “…How’d you know?”

  The girl slumped lower in her seat. “This is going to be a long ten hours.”

  Fix adjusted himself in the backseat, trying to get comfortable among all the gear. “Did y’all have to bring quite so many guns, by the way?”

  “Brotherhood are all over the desert like a red rash, Fixster,” Grimm replied, glancing in the rearview. “Better safe than sorry, yeah?”

  “I still don’t know what we’re doing out here,” Diesel growled. “Sticking our necks out for some damn rustbucket. We should be lying low.”

  Fix nodded. “Not like the Major to risk a field op on something this small. Especially so soon after y’all got nailed. All this fuss over little Shorty don’t feel right.”

  “She’s his granddaughter,” Grimm said.

  “I know that, motherforker,” Fix said. “But it don’t feel right.”

  “I’ve known the Major two years,” Diesel murmured. “He’s never really spoken to me about his daughter. Never made a big deal out of kin. Not once.”

  “His daughter bailed on him, Deez,” Grimm said. “It’s obviously a sore spot for him, and he’s obviously tryin’ to make up for his mistakes with her by spoiling Lemon. I kinda feel sorry for the old sod.”

  “Rrrrright,” Diesel said, glancing at him sidelong. “And I’m sure your cooperation has nothing to do with the fact you like this girl.”

  “What?” Grimm cried, pressing his hand to his heart. “That is some slanderous defamation of my good character, madam.”

  Diesel turned, looking to the big boy in the backseat. “Fix, in the four years since you pulled the Major out of that wreck in Plastic Alley, have you ever seen him run a risk like this over a damned robot?”

  Fix shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

  Diesel nodded, turned back around to look at Grimm. “One general law. Leading to the advancement of all organic beings, namely, multiply, vary, let the strongest live…”

  “…and the weakest die,” Grimm replied. “You don’t need to be quoting Darwin at me, Deez.”

  “Organic beings,” she repeated. “Meat, not metal. So, being the future of the species and all, we’re risking an awful lot for a tin can is what I’m saying.”

  Grimm scowled, but made no reply. Fix adjusted himself again, elbowing the packs out of the way in an attempt to get comfortable. Finally the big boy sighed, flung a bulky satchel into the well behind the rear seat.

  “Ow!” came a muffled yelp.

  “…D’y’all hear that?”

  “I heard that,” Grimm said.

  The boy slammed on the brakes, and Trucky McTruckface skidded to a halt. The deviates bailed out, Fix putting his finger to his lips. The temperature around Grimm began dropping, his breath billowing off his lips in white puffs. Diesel had her hand on her pistol as the trio crept around to the back of the truck. The girl drew her weapon as Fix jumped up and unclasped the rear door, dragged it wide.

  There, under an old blanket and a pile of packs and rifles, was Lemon.

  “Jesus,” Diesel breathed, lowering her pistol.

  Lemon brushed the dust off her freckles. “Not quite.”

  “What the funk you doin’ in there?” Fix demanded.

  “Sleepover, what’s it look like?”

  “The Major ordered you to stay at Miss O’s,” Grimm said.

  Lemon crawled out from her hiding space, dropping down onto the desert floor. “You seem to have mistaken me for someone who takes orders, Grimm.”

  Fix turned to the others and sighed. “We gotta take her back.”

  “I’m not going back, I’m going to look for Cricket.” Lemon peered at Fix and Diesel accusingly. “And just so you know, I didn’t want my grandpa to order you out here. I wanted to come on my own, and I tried talking him out of sending you. This is my problem. I don’t expect help from any of you.”

  “Lem, please,” Grimm said, taking her arm. “We can’t let you go.”

  Lemon shook off his grip. “I’ve busted bigger and badder noses than yours, cowboy. Cricket’s out there and he might need me. In case you forgot, I stole this truck when I was saving your asses. It’s mine. Fifth Rule of the Scrap.”

  The trio looked at her blankly.

  “Takers keepers,” she sighed. “So gimme the keys and you can walk back.”

  “Lemon—”

  “Gimme the damn keys, Grimm!” she shouted, raising one tiny fist.

  “They’re still in the ignition,” Diesel said.

  “Oh.” Lemon blinked. Lowered her fist. “Right.”

  The girl spun on her heel and marched to the driver’s side door. Sadly, she’d forgotten to bring a copy of the Goodbook to stand on this time. Chewing her lip, she frowned up at her monster truck and wondered why being a few inches taller hadn’t been included in her list of advantageous genetic traits.

  Finally, setting her face in what she hoped was a determined expression, she took a running leap for the handle and missed it by a good five centimeters.

  Clearing her throat, she leapt again, missing by seven.

  “We should’ve brought popcorn,” Diesel deadpanned, folding her arms.

  Lemon looked around her. She spied a big rock, stomped over and grabbed hold. Face turning as red as her hair, she tried to drag it toward the truck. But even leaning backward with all her weight, she managed to move it around a centimeter and a half. She felt tears of frustration burning her eyes. A small fortune for the swear jar building up inside her chest.

  “Milady?”

  Turning around, Lemon saw Grimm on one knee beside the truck. The door was open, and his fingers were laced together, offering a boost up.

  “…Are you making fun of me?” she demanded.

  “Give me some credit,” the boy replied. “I’m not that bloody stupid.”

  “You clearly are,” Diesel said, eyebrow raised. “You’re honestly going to help this lunatic get herself killed?”

  “You forget the part where she saved our lives, Deez?”

  “Grimm, are you forkin’ crazy?” Fix demanded. “We can’t let her go alone.”

  “I’m not,” Grimm replied. “I’m going with her.”

  “You what?”

  “Deez and me would be dead if not for her, Fixster.”

  “Wow.” Diesel folded her arms. “I never fully grasped how deeply your brain was buried in your crotch, Grimmy.”

  “Let’s leave my crotch out of this, yeah?” he scowled. “It’s not about that.”

  “The Major will kick your funkin’ asphalt so hard you’ll taste shoe leather for a month,” Fix said.

  “Almost as hard as he’ll kick Diesel’s for sucking face with you on the couch while Lemon snuck out right under her nose,” he grinned.

  Diesel opened her mouth to voice objection.

  Pouted instead.

  “I hate you,” sh
e finally declared.

  Grimm gave an encouraging nod to Lemon. The girl stepped into his hands, propelled up into the cab with one strong heft. She scrabbled on the seat, almost slipped, felt Grimm’s hands on her butt pushing her up into the cabin. Blushing furiously, she dragged her bangs down over her eyes and shuffled over. A moment later, Grimm was leaping up into the driver’s seat beside her.

  “You’re really going to let this defective skirt lead you by the wang out into the wastelands?” Diesel called.

  “If you’re so worried about me, you could come along.”

  “You’re going to get yourself funkin’ killed!” Fix shouted.

  “Without you two there to help?” Grimm nodded. “Yeah, probably.”

  Diesel put her hands on her hips and turned to Fix. The big boy shrugged helplessly. The girl turned her black-shaded eyes back to Grimm, her stare burning hot enough to melt a hole through the windshield.

  Grimm grinned, revved the engine. “You coming or not?”

  Diesel glanced over her shoulder in the direction of Miss O’s, shaking her head and muttering. But finally, glaring pure murder all the while, she stomped around to the driver’s side door and aimed her deathstare up at the boy.

  “What?” Grimm asked.

  “You drive like an old man who took lessons from an old lady.”

  Grimm clutched his chest. “Madam, you wound m—”

  “Move!” Diesel shrieked, stamping her foot.

  Grimm shuffled over with all due haste. Diesel jumped up and climbed into the driver’s seat, tossing her hair from her face. Slamming the door hard enough to shake the rivets, the girl stared straight ahead.

  “Just so we’re clear, I loathe you like cancer right now.”