Blaze of Chaos

by C. J. Strange

  “Maybe you should let your mate take the reins more often,” Kendra's saying to someone who probably doesn’t care as I snatch the book back and look at what Duncan entered as his log.

  … seriously?

  “Scott?” I snap my head up and glare at him, completely taken aback by the lack of imagination even from him. How does someone who can lift cars and sprint close to the speed of sound decide on a dull-as-shit name like, “Scott!?”

  Duncan shrugs. “I got my drink, laddie. I’ll pay you five pounds to sit there and make a tally of all the fecks I don't give.”

  “Speaking of,” Kendra chimes in, “I’m about to add your top, you might want to do the same.”

  I bloody hate it when Duncan finds someone to double-team me with like this. He’s such a smug tosser. I scowl, find the pen, sign a name I’ve had on retainer for a while and never actually used, and reach for my pint as it’s placed on the bar towel next to my wallet.

  “Eight pound forty, mate,” says Kendra with a much friendlier smile. “You paying Bit?”

  “Aye,” says Duncan, “unless you know of some other magical way that exists?”

  “I know of a lot of Magickal things that exist,” Kendra replies without missing a beat, and while I don’t think Duncan catches it (because he’s slow and Scottish), I definitely fucking do. Or at least, I think I do. I hope I’m not seeing things because I want them to be there.

  I put my beer down with a sense of authority. It’s not often I’m able to get one over on Duncan and I’m going to enjoy this to the maximum.

  “I got some Coin on me, if you take that.”

  It’s worth it. Duncan chokes on his bloody girly whiskey drink and slams it down on the bar, burying his face in one arm of his leather jacket to muffle the sound of him dying a slow and painful death. I just wish he would die a quiet slow and painful death, and maybe face me as he’s doing it, so he has a clear view of the small, metal, cylindrical pot I'm withdrawing from my front pocket, only a little bigger than my thumb.

  Too many coincidences, too many signs. The sign over the door, the names of past guests, even the fact that the bloke in the corner is blatantly using that oversized trilby to hide the fact that his hair is moving about on its own. At this point, I'm pretty sure I know what's occurring here.

  Kendra’s mirroring my knowing smirk with one of her own. She knows I know, and I know she knows. Maybe this place is going to feel more like home than I first thought it would.

  “That sounds like something we could work out, Diesel. Welcome to the Faux Globe Inn, boys. I hope I’ll get used to seeing both of your faces round here.”

  11 Oliver’s Damage

  “I can’t believe they’ve been down the pub all day.”

  “You can’t?” Penny finishes setting the drop-down bed in place over the dashboard and grins down the van at me. “Were you actually expecting them to bring home dinner?”

  She has a point. This is Alfie and Duncan we’re talking about, here. And considering she’s been receiving texts from the latter and more stable of the two for most of the afternoon while we’ve been working, we can be confident that they haven't killed one another yet. It stands to reason they’d be enjoying some downtime and drowning their grief.

  Not everybody’s a workaholic like we are.

  “You still haven’t told me which bed you want,” Penny’s saying as she starts fussing with the blankets and pillows she retrieved before. It isn’t often Penny shows her more feminine side. I wonder if it’s because she felt she had to portray this tough, war-hardened exterior all the time to be trusted as a commander in B.L.A.Z.E. But I love it when she acts all maternal and starts making sure we have healthy things to eat and comfortable places to sleep.

  “I know you’re particular so I wanted you to have first bagsy. The drop-down has a thinner mattress, but you’ve got more privacy up here. And you’ve slept on the sofa before, I’m not going to bother folding it out because people will be up all night on watch. Given your choices I’m going to presume you’d prefer to share a bed with Duncan, and he’s probably going to be fine anywhere as long as it isn’t beside Alfie. And, you’re not listening to me, are you?” Penny sighs.

  I am, even though I’m focused on her laptop and not her specifically, and I whip my head up when she calls me out. “I am, sorry. Just setting up this download.” I gnaw at my thumbnail, aware but unwilling to stop. “I honestly don’t know, Penny. I’m sorry. Where do you prefer to sleep?”

  “Anywhere. Just not outside.”

  “What about Alfie?”

  “Alfie would sleep in the sink if he had to.”

  I hope my sigh doesn’t sound as exasperated as I feel, but I’ve been coping with a headache that’s bordering on a migraine all bloody day, and I’m exhausted. I know damn well why I don’t care which bed I'm allocated, but I’m not about to admit to it out loud. “It really doesn’t matter to me, Penny. I can just kip on the settee when I’m tired, or whatever.” I offer up a smile. “Really. I’m fine.”

  She doesn’t believe me. Of course she doesn’t believe me, I’ve always been a terrible liar. I squirm in my seat as she closes the distance between us, leaning on the back of the chair across from the sofa where I’m sitting.

  “You love bedtime. You used to say it’s your favorite time.” Her gaze is too much. I writhe out from under it, pinning my eyes on the coffee table in front of me and the empty pair of mugs on coasters beside each other. “I’d make us a brew and say goodnight, and you’d finally let yourself stop working for the night and read a book, snuggled into a warm blanket.”

  Penny pauses, and I can tell she’s curious to see if I’ll glance back up at her before continuing.

  “So, it’s almost ten. Local Afterdark is in one hour. Why don’t I put the kettle on, pull out whatever pajamas I have in the closet, and we’ll make a nest and watch a film.”

  A film. That seems harmless enough.

  While I may not be interested in closing my eyes tonight, if not for paranoia of being flash-bombed in my sleep but for the explosive home movies my brain keeps projecting on the backs of my eyelids, a distraction is a good idea.

  “I even have some real ones here, look, with the KING Entertainment seal of approval on them and everything…” She draws a wedge of OVDs (Optimum Video Discs, which replaced Blu-Ray about five years ago) the width of what her hand can hold from the shelving unit and lays them out on the coffee table. “That way we know they’re legal and appropriate and don’t contain any material unsuitable for a proper British household.” She snorts a laugh, and I can’t help my lips cracking into a smile at her words.

  “Tell you what,” she says, “go get comfortable in the drop-down and I’ll figure out which ones looks the least ridiculous. Or the most, depending on what you’re in the mood for. I could go either way tonight.”

  My eyes bravely endure the endless journey down the galley toward the aforementioned sleeping space. No, nook. Tight, and cramped, and tight. And cramped. My mouth is paper-dry when I try to speak and no words are able to get a decent grip on my tongue.

  I can’t be trapped in there.

  “… Oliver?”

  “I, uh. Settee. I’m fine here. On the settee.” To make my point, I pat the creamy leather underneath me, and Penny sighs and nods.

  “All right, make yourself at home, then. We’ll do a couch nest.”

  It takes me until I'm meticulously folding and arranging the quilts for maximum comfort and minimum creasing to realize she's basically talked me into going to bed.

  Wow. She’s good.

  “Here.” Penny sets the two mugs I didn’t notice her swipe back down on the table, brimming with tea of two starkly different shades. That’s the one reason I’ll trust Penny and Penny alone with making my brew: she treats it like an art. Not in a way that’s snobby or posh, in a way that says she cares you get something you like. Milk, sugar, steep time, she’s got it all down pat.

  “Cheers,” I thank her
, forcing a smile through the headache and reaching for the paler brew. My senses are going haywire, even more than usual. I can smell every grain of sugar as it dissolves, the scent of glass from the bottle still clinging to the milk.

  And her scent. Penny’s scent. All over the mug itself. Without meaning to, I inhale deeply, letting it rush into my lungs.

  I think I have a tiny problem.

  Penny waits for me to settle amongst the covers before snuggling in beside me. After two years of friendship, we’ve got our system sorted out and can both assume the position with the snap of a pair of fingers; squished together side-by-side, her legs folded overtop of mine, her head nestled in her own private little spot in the crook of my neck.

  I’m bigger than her, even if it’s only by a tad, and that means I get to be the big spoon. Fair is fair.

  “This is going to be brutal,” she mumbles against my collarbone, a familiar sensation that’s started to stir something more in recent months. With how sensitive I am tonight, it’s an arousal that strikes me twofold, and I struggle to find something else to focus on.

  Across the van from us, the television flickers to life within the wall unit. Penny chuckles. “Have you ever seen Snow and Iron?”

  “Which one’s that again?” They all blur into each other after a while. Typically, any film or sitcom or other entertainment production aired or funded by KING Entertainment tends to be a bit off the wall, if you run it parallel to reality. As with all propaganda, every piece has a purpose, a function, a specific aim or goal. Bearing that commonplace red seal with the little gold lion meant a show, game, OVD or CD (I still can’t believe those were successfully brought back) passes the requirements set by the Sovereignty and can legally be consumed on the British marketplace.

  “The one with the rebuilding of the Roman Wall in 2022,” Penny replies. “Where they depict all Scotsmen as kilt-wearing cannibals who eat D. Daniel Brown's arms and legs.”

  Whilst I’m aware we aren’t watching this film for anything other than sarcastic amusement, I don’t think I could care less what it’s about. I won’t be focusing on its content. Between the delicious scent of Penny’s hair and skin wafting under my nose and the general sense of unease in my stomach, I think the telly will be the least of my concerns.

  “Any movie where that hack D. Daniel Brown loses his arms and legs sounds worth a watch to me.” One of my arms has snaked around her back, and she’s cuddling more deeply into my side. I can physically sense her muscles unknotting against me one by one. My heart alights at the thought that I could help her feel at ease. Even after everything that has happened.

  “And by the time it’s done, that download should be too,” I add, musing my inner thoughts aloud. Which is a bad idea, I immediately discover, because Penny is craning her neck to half-glare up at me.

  “Your watch is at ten, and you’ve had a bloody migraine on and off all day. You should sleep early so you aren’t exhausted. And don’t look at me like a moody ferret. As your lieutenant, it’s my job to make sure you perform at your best.”

  My cheeks flush with heat. I view my brigade duties in a very serious light, and the shame that every hour I push back my bedtime is another hour of sleep I won’t be getting has been bubbling under the surface for a while. I sip my tea to buy myself time, and Penny speaks up again before I can swallow.

  “You don’t want to go to sleep, do you?”

  How does she do it?

  I know for a fact she’s not telepathic, or in any way able to read emotions. We’ve always been extremely open with each other about what we can and can’t do, and her Anomaly Magicks are in no way biological. But there are times when she’s so intuitive it makes me wonder.

  I hang my head on the opposite shoulder to the one she’s claimed. “I don’t want to close my eyes,” I mumble, half-hoping she won’t hear. I don’t like sounding half my age; people already treat me like the baby of the group. And it’s hard to be taken seriously when people think of you as the baby.

  “Because you see things in your head?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Things to do with what happened last night?”

  I hesitate, stuttering on my syllables, before I’m able to answer. “Th-the fire. All the heat, and the noise… every time I close my eyes, all of it comes back to me. All of it. And I don’t have anything more potent to chase it away with. Trust me, I’ve even been considering having a drink, maybe talking to Alfie about finding something strong enough to knock me out with.

  “I mean, I sat there all night as we drove,” I babble on, “and I didn’t want to close my eyes. I was knackered. But if I closed my eyes, I went back to that place. Physically. And the only way I can remind myself it’s over is by being aware of my surroundings, of this place. The van, the road, the site here. All those smells, all those sounds, all those sights. Because if I can’t see it…”

  My voice ripples off into oblivion, but as always Penny has my back. “Then it doesn’t exist,” she finishes for me, and she sighs with enough weight that I feel it against me. “That’s normal, love. Honestly.”

  “I know it is. PTSD is a legitimate, medically-recognized condition where—”

  “I'm not talking about generic PTSD, Oliver. Well, I am. But I know exactly what you're getting at.” Penny resettles against my chest, looping her arm up across me so that she can slide her fingers into the back of my outgrown hair.

  “I went through the same experiences my first year with B.L.A.Z.E.,” she says, letting her nails drag themselves gently over my scalp. Something in the combination of the two begins to unwind the tension in my muscles from the top down. “Thought I was well hard, accepted way too much work out there and saw some shit that changed me as a person. You find ways to adapt, to nurse the raw wounds this work gives you, so that the horror doesn't scar you for life. Or at least, doesn’t scar you too bad. Our scars remind us of what we’ve suffered, survived, and conquered, so sporting a couple isn’t such an unwise thing.”

  Sometimes, I forget that Penny is only a year older than me. She talks like someone in her late twenties or early thirties, with a maturity and acceptance of the world that I envy.

  Which is why it’s always embarrassing when she offers me a beautiful and impassioned soliloquy, and I response with something innocently awkward like, “Adapting to nurse the wounds? Is that what you and Duncan were doing last night?”

  I immediately wish I could break my own face. If not for punishment, to keep ridiculous things like that from ever being released into the wild. Penny’s smaller body draws away from my own, and I peer up at her anxiously through my fringe, afraid of what I might see in her eyes.

  “You heard that?” she asks. Her steely blue eyes are rounder than normal, and, to my surprise, I swear I see a touch of blush cross her freckled cheeks.

  “Y-yeah, but, I mean, it’s your van and I’m not judging you or anything—”

  Penny waves me off. “Oh, please, mate. I didn’t think you're judging us at all. I’m just sorry you had to listen to it.”

  “I’m more sorry I had to interrupt it,” I murmur gracelessly, and although I’m being completely truthful, we both end up chortling and eventually laughing loudly. As our shared giggle fit starts to settle down without one of us looking at the other and shattering them all over again, I reach up with one hand and wipe a tear from my eye.

  “You know,” I say, “I didn’t even know you and Duncan were together. You both kept that secret.”

  Penny pulls a lopsided, almost-comical face. “Um. Yeah, we—we're not 'together', exactly.”

  I pray to the scientific logic and reason I worship so faithfully that it doesn't show how my heart just sprouted tiny wings and soared up into my esophagus. “R-really? You’re not? You two are so close.”

  “So are we, you wazzock,” she shoots back with a grin. “But no, we’re not. We just… we spent a lot of long nights together when I was getting my feet wet here. He really took me under his wing. This is
sort of what it blossomed into.”

  “Friends with big benefits?”

  “I think we’re both partial to the term ‘fuckbros’.”

  “Do you two have any other… fuckbros?”

  “No.” She chuckles again. “Not that I think we’d be opposed. It’s not—it's more a shield brothers type thing and less a romantic involvement. Intimate, but not in the way you'd think. We trust each other with our lives daily, so I guess it feels not only natural to trust each other with our bodies as well, but right. Does that make any sense?”

  One-hundred percent. Not only does it make sense to me, I’m still reeling from it. By now, my heart has worked its way up higher and is crushed against the back of my throat, wailing at my tongue to do something. Every hair on my entire body is standing up on end. It’s the words, the implication, the presence of the moment. The exciting, almost pleasant chill on the air, and the accustomed heat between our bodies I've grown so used to. It’s all so familiar, and yet now… it’s entirely new.

  “I’m not saying I wouldn’t be open to it with someone else I care about,” Penny's rambling, her voice so distant despite her sitting so close. “We aren’t exclusive, and without sounding like some sort of nasty slag, I’m actually a pretty big fan of the whole sex thing.”

  That’s all the motivation and permission my heart apparently needs. Or at least, all my brain needs to agree with my heart.

  The opening credits of our British propaganda treat are beginning to roll over a backdrop of lorries hauling construction cargo off-road through an icy northern tundra. Regardless of my usual desire to avoid eye contact, my attention has now fully vacated the film, and those tenacious English engineers are just going to have to build their racist wall without us paying any attention to the extent of their sacrifices.

  Instead, I’m staring into Penny's equally snowy eyes with more intimacy than I think I ever have. I can see every color daubed across her irises, make out the cut of every slate and sapphire. I feel every bit like a trashy romance novel as I illustrate their detail, which in its own strange way prepares me perfectly for what I’m about to do next.