“So, I say,” Sami said, “That we all agree never to play to the knockout again.”
“Agreed,” Liam said. “Of course, I am never ever going to fight in a tournament again. I want to go down on record as being completely undefeated.”
Greg cupped his mouth and booed – quietly.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Liam stuck his finger out, pointing at his friend. “Do you know why Admiral Thrawn is considered the greatest leader in galactic history?”
“Because he's blue space Belisarius?” Greg asked.
“Thrawn?” Sami asked. The Scot looked equally as baffled.
“Because Thrawn never fought a battle he knew he couldn't win,” Liam said, seriously. “Except for that last time with the clone of Palpatine.”
“Wait, Star Wars?” Chelsea asked. “Wasn't Palpatine the Emperor? Didn't he die?”
“Yeah, that's why he was cloned,” Liam said.
“I thought that his name was Snoak or something,” Chelsea said.
“God, that is an awful name for a Star Wars villain,” Greg said, putting his head in his hands.
“I liked it,” Chelsea spoke into her glass as she tipped it backwards and drank from it. She, unlike everyone else at the table (and observable universe as far as Liam could tell) abstained from using a straw, a fact that the wait staff hadn't seemed to grasp as evidenced by the increasing pile of unused straws stacked on the napkin beside her plate.
Sami, though, waved his hand – trying to banish this talk of the space-future. “There is one thing we need to decide on before we head out: what are you going to call her?”
Chelsea leaned slowly forward – catching Sami's eye. “Her?”
“I am sorry. It is the tradition: ships, swords and very large guns are named her.” Sami nodded seriously – as he wasn't the designated driver, he had been quietly knocking down a few of the very fruity, slightly alcoholic drinks that the restaurant served. He did check an iPod app that looked like it was designed to calculate the duration of a drunk every other sip, though. The end result was that he was beginning to pronounce everything with the seriousness and earnest focus of the slightly drunk. “And all proper swords are named.”
“Foebiter,” Greg said.
“Excalibur,” Chelsea pitched in.
“Colada,” the Scot said, nodding. “And Tizona.”
“Fine!” Liam said, holding up his hands. “Fine, I need to name the sword. Just give me a bit of time, okay?”
“If you don't have it before we hit the museum tomorrow,” Greg said, leaning forward. “I will kill you.”
Everyone but Liam looked at Greg nervously – the large man had pronounced this with utter seriousness. Liam pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.
“Don't worry,” he said. “Greg considers casual murder to be an effective carrot.”
“It got you through trig, didn't it?”
***
The carpeted hallways of the Hilton sucked up sound as effectively as a sponge. Liam hated it. He liked houses that creaked and groaned and were alive. This kind of near perfect soundproofing reminded him too much of morgues and sensory isolation chambers and recording rooms – the kind of places where the mind started making up noises just to be doing something. Fortunately, the company he was keeping made it easier to ignore his own dislike of the place. Chelsea walked with him, her shoulders shaking. “He didn't,” she said, her hand covering her mouth.
“He did,” Liam said, pausing at the door leading to his room. Greg had gone with Sami and the Scot to the gym in the Hilton. Apparently, there was a full sized pool-table tucked somewhere in there, and they were going to enjoy hitting balls with sticks. Liam's slightly sleepy brain tried to find a good pun to make but couldn't come up with anything. He leaned against the door and smiled at Chelsea. “And that is why, when Greg says that he will bring the firepower, you believe him.”
Chelsea smiled at him, her hands on the curve of her cheek. Liam paused – uncertain about how to say goodnight.
So, instead, he said: “Want to come in?”
The door opened behind him and Liam felt his skin tingle with an excitement more intense and more focused than that he had felt when he had faced off across the field from Sami. Gooseflesh rose along his forearms as Chelsea put her fingers against her skin and stepped into the room after him. The entrance hall to the room was tighter and closer than the rest of the room – and they both stayed there, taking advantage of the closeness. For the life of him, Liam had no idea who went for the first kiss – it was like, one moment, they were close. The next, their tongues were locked as they pressed against one another. Her dark hands grabbed at his ass and she squeezed and Liam heard a quiet, cat-like growl at the base of her throat.
And his knees almost melted.
She thinks I'm sexy, he thought, his eyes closed tight as Chelsea pressed him – back first – against the wall. The wall wasn't a wall, it was the sliding door of a closet and Liam felt it give under him weight and pressure ever so slightly. His hands grabbed her hips and shoved her back as he came up for breath. Pant. Pant. Pant.
“S-So, uh, sock?” she murmured.
“Sock?” he asked, dazed.
“Y-You know, like, on the door?”
“Sock!” His eyes widened. He blinked. “C-Chelsea, I, uh, w-wait, are-”
“We're not going to see each other again tomorrow, and Jesus Christ, you are fucking hot,” Chelsea whispered in his ear. Her hands slipped from his ass to the crotch of his jeans. A single, warm, coffee-brown palm cupped his cock and Liam groaned under his breath. “Let's have fun before real life comes back.”
Liam gulped. “Condom?”
“In my wallet,” she murmured. Then, seeing his look, she smirked. “You, like, going to get judgmental or something?”
“No! Christ, no!” he grinned at her. “Besides, uh, never really was down with St. Augustine.”
“Hmm?” Chelsea asked, lifting up one foot and tugging off her sneaker. She wriggled her pink sock off a moment later, opening the door and tugging it over the knob. Once she had it shut, she kicked off her other shoe.
“Uh, obscure theological argument about free love and it's relation to the immortal souuuuuuuuahhhhhh!” Liam's breathless tirade turned into a yelp as Chelsea grabbed his hand and dragged him to the closer of the twin beds in the room. They both landed – Chelsa on her side, Liam on his back. Before he could sit up, the NorCal girl slung one hip over his and then straddled him. She leaned back and for a moment, he couldn't see her face thanks to the back lightning from the ceiling lamp.
Then he couldn't see her face because her shirt covered it.
Then she sat there, bright white sports bra against cream dark skin and Liam breathed slowly out.
Is this really happening? He thought.
Her bra hit his chest.
Yes, yes, this is really happening. W-Well, don't just lay there like an idiot. Do all those things boys are supposed to do! His brain had the sharp voice of his first swords-trainer, Mr. Ro.
The first thing Liam did was lean up and cup her breasts in his hands. They were firm and yet soft – her skin silky smooth. His fingers found her nipples and he gently teased them as he kissed her neck. Chelsea made a sound somewhere between a groan, a moan, and the word 'fuck' and kissed the top of his head. His fingers slipped under her breasts, then to her back as he kissed at the tips of one breast, then the other. He sucked on her nipple as his hands gripped her ass. Then, experimentally, he slapped her jean-clad cheek.
Chelsea squeaked – then, after a single heart-stopping moment, laughed.
Emboldened, Liam rolled her onto her back – and now the light provided a perfect view of her body rather than shrouding it. Her skin gleamed faintly with sweat even in the air conditioned hotel room, and her nipples were dark, almost black nubs that drew his eye and made his mouth water. But the freckles on her cheek extended along her shoulders and down her arms, like the spotting on a fawn. She spread her arms, writhing sens
“Like what you see, Mr. Vanderbilt?” she asked, coyly.
“Mmmmhmmm,” Liam said, tugging his own shirt off.
The tiny gasp that escaped Chelsea's mouth at the sight of him was extremely gratifying. Nothing like impressing a gorgeous girl to make a boy feel ten feet tall and capable of breaking Darth Vader over one knee while punching out the entire Borg Collective with his free hand at the same time. Then all thoughts beyond the practical physicality of the moment escaped him as her strong, lithe fingers hooked under the hem of his jeans and his shorts and tugged desperately, too desperate to even undo the button. His fingers did that job – and with the release of the button and the pressure keeping the jeans on his pants, his cock sprang free.
He had never been harder in his life.
Chelsea's hand closed around his cock and she cooed.
Okay, no, correction now was when he had never been harder before.
“Fuck, I can't wait,” Chelsea murmured. She was fishing in her wallet one handed. “I want this in me.”
“Uh, don't we need more, uh, foreplay?” Liam asked.
“I've been revved all day,” Chelsea said, her voice the model of practicality. “Fighting rubs my button, Ell. I need cock.”
Part of Liam felt...oddly uncertain.
Then Chelsea put the condom into her mouth and leaned forward. Her lips caressed Liam's cock – a warm, soft, enfolding sensation that contrasted with the slick, hot, tight feeling of the condom as she pushed herself forward and forward and forward and in a single, smooth motion, deepthroated him. Her tongue – almost dainty in its movements – pressed the base down and then she smoothly slid back with a faint glug noise. Coughing, she grinned at him.
“I had to, like, practice to get that right, dude,” she said. “I hope you are impressed.”
“Wow,” Liam whispered.
Part of Liam still felt oddly uncertain.
The rest of Liam was already frantically unbuttoning Chelsea's pants. They slipped off – revealing her wild tuft of pubic hair – and she rolled onto her back and then thrust her ass into the air. She grinned over her shoulder and spread her knees wide. Liam grabbed his cock, his brow furrowing as he focused on the pure physicality of the moment. His crucifix bounced against his chest as he reared backwards. His sheathed cock slipped up, then down, then pressed forward. She groaned into a pillow, arching her back to make it easier.
And Liam pressed into her.
Her sex squeezed him – tight and fierce – and Chelsea threw her head back, leaving a damp mark where she had bitten down on the pillow. She pushed back against him and Liam grabbed her hips. His hands slid to her shoulders, then squeezed as he started to find a natural, casual rhythm. Chelsea gasped and moaned and then said: “Ah...you can reach around, you know!” She grinned. “Find, ah, fuck, that cute little clitty of -nnh- mine and rub it good.”
“Right!” Liam shifted a bit, putting more of his weight on his right hand. His shoulders tensed and he reached around. Fortunately, Chelsea's vocalizations remained as frank and practical as ever.
“Left, right, up a bit – thaaaaaar it is!” She gasped. “Ah yes! Ah yes! H-Harder, it won't fucking break, oh Jesus, oh fuck yes!”
Liam ducked his head forward and saw his crucifix jounce and bounce around his neck as he drove into her faster and faster – and tried to ignore the vestigial guilt that the Gnostic had snuck into the early Christian church. He could hear the distant voice of St. Augustine of Hippo – sounding weirdly like the old grandfather in some sitcom.
How dare you enjoy the physical world, boy! It is sin!
Shut up, St. Augustine.
“Oh Godddddddd!” Chelsea groaned happily and Liam felt her sex constrict around him – tightening and drawing a jolt of pleasure through him. Before he even realized it, he was cumming and cumming hard. He felt the burst of heat and tightness around the condom that contained his dick. Then he felt like a cut guitar string – suddenly loose and noodley. He leaned forward, his head ducking forward. He panted, hearing Chelsea breath.
“Man,” she whispered. “That was, like, exactly the fuck I needed. Thanks, Ell.”
“Any time.”
Chelsea wriggled under him. She sighed. “I'd normally enjoy the feeling of your dick in me for a few more,” she said, squirming and slipping under his cock pulled out of her. “But that sock isn't a guarantee to keep that six foot tall ogre of your friend out.” She flashed a grin at him. “So, sorry to fuck and run, but-”
“No, no, it makes sense,” Liam said, smiling at her. “Besides. Just for fun, right?”
Chelsea cupped his cheek, then leaned in. The kiss caught a flicker of the earlier feeling of the night – a feeling of tingling excitement that had become washed out by the practicality and the realities of the moment. Then, in what felt like a few short heartbeats, she was gone. Liam knew that she had said things - things like “sleep tight” and “that was, like, fucking great” and “see you tomorrow morning” - but they had felt transitory.
Liam lay in bed, still naked, still sweating, and blinked.
“That's one way to lose your virginity,” he said. “I, uh, kinda expected more fanfare.”
Instead, all he heard was the faint squeak of the ceiling fan.
***
The Atlanta History Center – locked in one of the nicer parts of the Buckhead District in Atlanta – was a delightful place if you wanted to learn about the deadliest war in American history. But that wasn't why Liam, Sami, Chelsea – who acted exactly the same as she had yesterday, which for Liam was honestly a relief – Greg and the Scot had come there. No, the reason they had come was only going to be present for another month and a half. The fact that next to no one had actually come to check it out just made it better for the lot of them.
The Early Christian History exhibit was filled with the relics and history of a part of Christian history that was lost and ignored by modern Americans. Liam knew a few bits here and there – mostly stuff picked up by researching the history of Rome and Byzantium. He recognized names that popped up here and there – names like Monophysite, and Gnostic, and Apollinarians and others. But the details were a mass of ecumenical councils and debates that had long since been settled (or, at the very least, tucked into a corner and labeled with “do not open, will cause holy war.”)
The center of the exhibit, though, were some ancient relics of the early Church. These were objects on loan from the museums of Istanbul in a Turkey/America BFF gesture that was part of the myriad of subtle connections that wedded the NATO nations together into a tight, comforting blanket of nuclear deterrence.
“So, did you come up with a name?” Sami asked.
“What?” Liam asked, his backpack and his scabbard bouncing against his back as he walked with his friends through the corridors of the museum.
“For your sword?” Sami grinned.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” Liam said, coughing slightly. His hand went back to the hilt of his sword, wrapped in leather and cloth. He closed his eyes, steeled himself, and said: “Delenn.”
“Who?” Sami asked.
“That bone-headed chick from Babylon 5?” Greg asked.
Liam scowled at Greg. “She's beautiful, a mixture of old and new, and can kick immense amount of ass if she needs too!”
“That, honestly, sounds like a really good name for a sword,” Chelsea said.
“What is that?” Greg asked, his voice sounding shocked as he looked away from the group and pointed.
They had walked past a few early paintings of Church leaders and were into the actual artifacts themselves – some examples of early worry beads and other religious paraphernalia that hadn't made it to the western branches of Christianity.
“I have no idea,” Liam said.
Together, the lot of them walked up to the central exhibit. It was hard to describe. Just looking at it made Liam want to rub his nose and blink a lot. It looked like a box made of solid iron, with crossbars that connected to one another, forming a perfect cube. There was nothing inside, and yet the angles of the structure all conspired to make the interior seem smaller than it could possibly be. Despite there being absolutely nothing odd about the center, looking into it made Liam feel queasy. The rest of his friends all looked uncertain too.
“It says,” Sami said, reading carefully off the placard set out before the box, “The Manichean Solution. Found in 1989 in a secret chamber in the Hagia Sophia by archeologist Amir Hussain, it was found with a scroll dating to the year 300 CE. Described as being a blasphemous tool used by the Manichean heresy, this box was said to be used to spread their creed into Europe and China.” He humphed. “What is a Manichean?”
Liam already had his iPod out, grinning as he checked the battery. Still ninety eight percent. “Manichean,” he read. “A major religious movement founded by Iranian prophet – Mani – in the year 216.” He nodded. “Blah blah blah, dualistic cosmology. Oh.” He shook his head. “They're one of those people who think the spiritual world is all good and the material world is all bad.” He frowned slightly. “I wonder what they used it for?”
“Creeping people out?” Chelsea asked.
“Maybe it was like those old temples to Zeus, where the priests used illusions and tricks to seem impressive?” Liam asked. “Like, you stick your arm through and the perspective makes-”
He put his arm forward, sticking his hand and his iPod through the box.
The resulting release of energy – caused by feedback and physical processes unknown to modern Earth – caused an explosion that shattered the box and the wall behind it into rubble. The others were, fortunately, protected from the blast by the directional nature of the energy release. The bigger danger was from the shrapnel that blew outwards. If Greg had been half an inch taller, he'd have stopped a chunk of metal the size of his thumb with his forehead, rather than earning a nasty scar. If Chelsea hadn't been leaning forward to watch Liam's demonstration, she'd have taken the chunk of concrete in the throat rather than her shoulder.
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