“How long?”
“Ten years, maybe eleven?” She shrugs, her ponytail bobbing as she does so. “It might be nice to pretend it’s just a holiday. Put off dealing with the inevitable by a week or two.”
“You’re not serious.”
Penny's grin throws me off, and not just because I have absolutely no functioning radar for sarcasm. “Of course I’m not serious, love. But wouldn’t that be brilliant?”
“I bet the other two could be talked into it.” Instead of freaking out and drowning in my embarrassment, I decide to roll with the joke, something Duncan suggested months ago when we shared some whiskey and some home truths. I’m not really a fan of either, but Duncan has a way of making you feel comfortable enough in your own skin to push your own boundaries.
I mean, I imagined myself joining them for a threesome last night. Me. The bloke everyone just assumes is the token hapless virgin of whatever group I’m with. If that doesn’t tell you what you need to know about Duncan Doherty, I don’t know what will.
“Yeah,” Penny answers after a long sigh. “As much as I love those lads, I’m glad they’ve taken their bickering elsewhere for a while. They’re going to drive me fucking barmy, they’re like a pair of grumpy old men.”
I definitely agree with her on that sentiment. Alfie and Duncan are like spaghetti bolognese and Sprite, great on their own but an unpleasant, unmitigated disaster if you try to blend the two. Trust me, I’ve spilled my drink in my dinner enough times to know.
But Alfie was behaving like a dog gnawing at his own leash, and as soon as we were finished setting up somebody may as well have said the W-word because he was itching to get outside. In the end, Penny finally agreed once Duncan said he was willing to chaperone, and the two set out to explore the amenities of the park and bring back some basic food components so that dinner can be cooked later on.
I have no idea how the rest of the globe enjoy their family holidays, but this really does feel like your traditional British summer getaway.
“All right, that’s that,” says Penny, re-slotting the grate into the old charcoal barbecue at one end of our pitch. She’s elected to make it usable while Alfie's out, deciding that would be smarter than waiting until he got back and wanted to help by burning off all the residue. He can be a bit of a pyromaniac, and Penny’s already affirmed the importance of us all keeping our abilities under wraps.
“Good timing,” I reply. “I set up a safe channel with A.R.M., Chuck Moss is ready to chat whenever you are. It’s about seven in the morning over there.”
“Fantastic. How’s your head?”
“Better for the pills, thanks, but I have a feeling it’ll be coming back for round two later.” I’m no stranger to random headaches, especially if I’ve been under stress, but this one’s been a real doozy. I’m chalking it up to two near-death escapes in one day.
Penny brushes her hands off on her jeans and crosses the small grassy space to where I’m sitting in a canvas camping chair. I pass her old laptop over as she sinks into the matching seat beside me, and she twists her body so that I can peer over her shoulder to see the screen.
Powerful pockets of Anomaly activism and resistance exist all over the world, from what we’ve been told. I’m even able to source and download international journalism depicting their exploits, and while things aren’t safe or stable for Anomalies in a lot of other countries, I’ve discovered that Britain ranks among the worst. Along with Russia, China, Israel, and Hungary. Welcome to the world of wonderfully useless facts that I know off-hand.
“I haven’t talked to A.R.M. in weeks,” I muse aloud as Penny waits for the screen to load. “I wonder how things in America are going with their federal election.”
“Probably not well,” she replies with some sourness. She’s a bit more of a realist than me. “If that Boone wanker wins it for the Republicans, they’ll go down the same road we did, blow for blow. Without a doubt.”
“You reckon they’ll withdraw globally too?”
“One-hundred percent. Remember all those articles you sent me a few weeks ago? He’s obsessed with the way the Sovereignty run the show this side of the pond. People are easier to control when they don’t have a wider view of their own world, or when you can force them to witness it through a lens of your own tinting. That’s why the KING Net exists.”
I wrinkle my nose. “It’s still hard to imagine that someone can run a campaign based entirely on their hatred of Anomalies, and still be considered a viable candidate for election.”
“That’s how Wentworth and the Sovereignty keep doing it, not that anyone can unseat them at this point. We all know it’s a sham.”
“That’s Prime Minister Wentworth to us commoners.”
“Ha, he can go swivel. But seriously, propaganda’s a heck of a tool, and ordinary people are really impressionable when they’re pissed off and need a punching bag.” She waves her hand. “All right, we’re on. I wonder if she knows what happened yet.”
I shrug. “Depends if the Sovereignty wanted it getting out. Nothing happens in Britain on the world stage unless they want it to.”
Chuck is the first to type, and Penny patiently lets her finish. Text-based communication isn’t the most effective and efficient, but it’s easier and more secure to set up than a video or audio connection.
CM: «Girl, I just saw what went down over there.»
CM: «We’ve all been worrying our asses off.»
CM: «And we’re so sorry, sweetheart.»
CM: «Are you OK? How many made it out?»
“That answers that question,” Penny says aloud as she’s typing.
PS: «We are coping. Two guys plus myself and OP, that we know of. We’re fairly sure it was B9.»
CM: «4!?»
CM: «That’s crazy! Fuck. I’m sorry.»
CM: «Are you stationary?»
I should be concentrating on the conversation between these two bold and brilliant leaders of Anomaly rights movements. But this close to Penny—close enough that I can inhale the warm, musky scent of her skin and sweet tang of her hair product—it’s impossible to focus on anything else. The aromas I've grown to love (or at least become entranced by) mix with several less familiar to a lad who’s lived in Greater Manchester for most of his life, sea salt and seaweed and freshly-cut grass.
It’s bloody intoxicating.
Apparently, spending the night ensconced in a quilt that smells of Penny hasn't desensitized me to my feelings for her. In fact, I would say things are worse; now, I can’t breathe her scent without thinking of her and Duncan in the back of the van…
And the fact that I was so caught up in my desire to join them both and make their two-way a three-way.
“It’s probably for the best we steel our nerves and just do it, right?”
Penny’s voice cuts through me like a bolt of lightning, jolting me back to the present. “Huh?” I exclaim, eyes panic-searching hers for some sort of context to her question. “Y-you would want—I mean, we—what?”
She laughs and shakes her head, lifting the laptop more into view. Oh. Right, of course. That makes a lot more sense now.
PS: «For now. We moved away from the big city and are laying low.»
CM: «Honestly? Smartest thing you could do.»
CM: «Keep your heads low and your eyes on the “news”, and wait this BS out.»
PS: «That’s the plan.»
PS: «Oh, we had a team active when they hit us and we can’t contact them. Should we keep trying?»
I glance briefly up at Penny. I’m not judging her, it’s nothing like that. I’m troubled. The Penelope Starling I know and love is feisty, fearless, and throws a two-finger salute to any who would dare attempt forbid or forsake her. While it’s not unusual for trusted colleagues in the whole underground activism game to trade help, speculation, and support, for Penny to outright ask almost for a command from an outside leadership figure? It doesn’t seem like Penny.
Maybe this whole situa
tion is affecting her a lot more seriously than she’s letting on.
CM: «Shit. Hmm.»
CM: «I know it can be difficult to switch off the doubt, but you gotta keep your boys alive now, girl.»
CM: «That’s your new job. Priority number one.»
CM: «They probably won’t admit it if they’re “typical guys”, but they need you to be strong. For them.»
CM: «They need you to put on your big girl pants, and starting thinking like their captain.»
CM: «And I think the rest of Britain needs that, too. From all of you.»
CM: «It’s time you kids became the heroes you were born to be.»
“Oh—you don't have to read all of it,” Penny says suddenly, probably after realizing how long I'm taking to catch up on their chat. She laughs nervously and motions down near the bottom. “Sorry, we were being—here, this part. I was talking about this.”
As intriguing and inspiring as it had been (as it always is when Chuck Moss opens her mouth to speak or puts her fingers to the keys), I don’t feel comfortable continuing from where I was last at with the opposite of express permission from Penny. My eyes follow her finger.
PS: «They snuck up on us last night, so I think there’s definitely concern it could happen again.»
PS: «I 100% trust OP’s ability to securely get in contact with the team if they’re still out there.»
PS: «But if you think it’s best we stay put and stay passive for survival, then I completely agree.»
CM: «Yeah, that’s a good call.»
CM: «I agree, girl. No matter how hard it gets.»
CM: «Stay put, stay passive, stay alive.»
CM: «Time to switch to survival mode.»
CM: «If you’re the last ones left, you owe it to the movement to do that. To stay alive.»
Exhaling deeply, I settle back in my folding canvas chair and chew over it mentally for a moment. “In all honestly, I can’t disagree with her. Recklessness will get us all killed. Besides, it's not like the out team won’t be trying to contact us, too.”
“And I won’t disagree with that,” says Penny, mirroring my sigh. “We should have a word with the lads about it properly later, but I can’t see Duncan disagreeing with our logic here.”
I can’t help it. I really can’t. I know this is a serious moment for Penny, and I'm honestly doing my best to wrestle back the invisible force that's quirking the corners of my mouth up into a smug grin, but its tenacity is more than I can take on such little sleep, and it easily wins out.
Emotions are so hard to deal with, and Chuck’s comment is still rattling around in my brain. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the constant paranoia, or even the steady thrum of my headache against my thoughts. Maybe it’s my own blind optimism. But, in my eyes, a world where we start viewing ourselves as the good guys and not an army of mercenaries bloodying our hands for the cause isn’t all that far-fetched an option.
“So… I guess we’re all going to be proper heroes then, huh?”
I probably deserve the way she snaps her head to the side, flicking her thick ponytail across my cheeks quickly and sharply enough to act as a whip and leave me sputtering strands of wavy, blonde hair from my mouth.
But my own silent admission of guilt doesn’t make further exposure to the familiar, musky, tangy scent of my two-year crush any easier to bear. Not by a long shot.
10 Alfie’s Happy Place
A wise bloke once said if a man can find his happy place, he’ll eventually find himself.
Or some crap like that, anyway. Probably. You know what, maybe it was me.
See, I ain’t as thick as our resident Scotsman thinks, not by a mile. I know what I need to be happy, and my list is simple: a frosty pint, somewhere to smoke, a widescreen telly to watch Match of the Day, and the pleasant company of some proper nice folk after a long day making the Sovereignty’s lives completely hellish.
In a word, what I’m searching for is a pub.
And one of the only good things left about Britain is that you still can’t spit without hitting one. In fact, I would hazard a claim that pub culture—something we all grew up with in this country—has only grown over the past decade, since Wankworth and his fascist cronies seized power in late 2018. And it’s not about getting munted and waking up naked in someone else’s bathtub (although that does happen); it’s about the atmosphere, the neighborly aspect of sitting at the social center of your community. The great British public house has been part of life on this foggy shithole island for generations, since the days when no fucker could read so they mounted pictures of lions and horses and hounds outside of them so the townspeople knew where to meet their mates after work.
That’s where the whole titling tradition comes from. And you have to agree with me on this one, there’s nothing better than a pub with a cool name.
“The Faux Globe Inn,” Duncan reads aloud, as we both stand staring up at the wall-mounted sign over the entry. “A free house.” Behind the gold-printed words is a painting of a familiar woman, which had caught my eye and held it as we approached the pub. I can’t stop staring at her, which is probably why I’m too distracted to make the most of an opportunity to take the piss out of the Scotsman.
“It’s free house, not free hoos,” I mutter lazily, not breaking my eyes away from the sign yet. “If you’re going to live in our country, mate, you need to pronounce shit proper.”
Duncan snorts. “If you lot cannae spell shite like it sounds, how can we be expected to pronounce it?”
He actually manages to belt up and stay silent for the next few seconds while I take in the painting. It’s not the first time I’ve seen an image of Her, but it’s one of the most breathtaking. Dark skin, stormy hair, moonlit eyes, and a look that’s loving, protective, and powerful all at the same time. One hell of a woman. In the glow of her aura sits the Earth, dark shadows obscuring the location where Britain would be.
It’s probably the ballsiest official storefront advertisement I’ve seen in a good long while. And while it ain’t the punniest pub name I’ve seen to date, thanks to Penny explaining the word 'faux' to me a few weeks ago, it makes me smirk. It’s pretty damn clever too, if you think about it.
Faux Globe. ‘Cause it might as well not exist from where we’re all fucking sitting.
“You deaf, eejit?”
“Huh?”
“I said we going in then?”
It’s nigh on impossible, but I wrench my gaze from the sign, storing a mental picture for later. I’ll take a sneaky one on my mobile on our way out later.
“This pub’s not on the park map even though it’s on the grounds,” I repeat (because, you know, he’s Scottish) quietly as I lead the way in. “So if it ain’t the most family-friendly place, don’t get all offended.” I try not to come across as too excited that my new temporary local might be a rough joint, the last thing I need is him judging me.
The Faux Globe is dimly-lit but homey, just as small on the inside as it looks from the outside. As we enter, a single barmaid looks up from whatever she's polishing behind the L-shaped bar.
“Watcha,” I greet her casually, sauntering up and tossing my wallet onto the bar towel.
The barmaid tosses her cloth and puts the same hand on her hip. She’s gorgeous, with my same nose ring and floral tattoos crawling over her chest from beneath her low-cut blouse-thing. “Watcha, lads.” Her eyes zero in on my sling, barely visible beneath the black hoodie Penny gave me from the van. “Ouch. Let me guess, I should see the other guy, right?”
“Probably nothing left of him, love, so good luck with that. I’ll have a Carlsberg top, and a Glayva neat for the Wall-jumper, if you got it.”
“I think I could make that work. Guessing neither one of you’s a member here yet?”
“We have to be members?” I ask coolly.
“Yeah, but I can sign you both in as guests for today, it’s not a problem.” She flashes us a smile and pulls out a leather-bound book. “I’ll just need
your names, guys. Oh, and…” Her eyes move back and forth between us as she peers up through strands of inky-black hair that have escaped their tie. “I wanted to let you know we practice a lot of discretion here at the Globe. Whatever name you provide doesn’t need to be on your official BitID.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Establishments and businesses never allow you to use an alias that isn’t part of your standard Sovereign-issued identity. If they do, there’s something going on.
And I’m well interested to see what that is…
The barmaid puts the book down in front of me, obviously sensing I’m the alpha male of the two of us, and hands me a pen. In the slots above the next blank one are a whole host of bizarre names I was not expecting to see: Grey, Foxy, D'Angelo, Dodge, Loki, Blaze, X4…
“Fuck me, you get a lot of video game protagonists come through here then?”
She laughs as she’s fetching two glasses from open shelves above the bar. “They’re some of my special friends. Good crowd. You’d like them, I reckon.”
I raise a brow at her. “Oh, you reckon, do you? What makes you say that?”
There’s a knowing look in her eyes I both dig and don’t, and she keeps grinning back at me as she measures out Duncan’s Glayva. “Just a feeling. Never served me wrong yet. Anyway, I encourage people to be creative—so go mad.”
“Creative, eh? What’s your creative name then?”
She puts Duncan's drink up on the bar. “Kendra.”
“Hang about, whoa, whoa, whoa! Ease off on all the creative juices there, J. K. Rowling.”
Kendra rolls her eyes as she tilts my glass beneath the tap. “I said I encourage creativity, Duracell, not embody it. You’ve got until I’m done pulling this pint to sign in, by the way, or I have to kick you both out for not being members.”
“Duracell? That you trying to be creative again?”
Duncan elbows me out of the way and snatches the pen. “The copper-topped battery, ye dafty,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “They also say it don't ever run out of fecking energy. Oliver was telling me once they have something similar for Energizer ‘cross the pond…” He signs in quickly, then immediately drops the pen to retrieve his drink like a typical alcoholic Scotsman.
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