The bat weighs heavy in my hand, palms stinging a little. The last one was a bad hit, bad angle, bad spot, and the reverberations traveled in a bad way. I don't shake out my hands, don't take the moment to rest and recenter myself. The next ball is already on the way, the nozzle already loaded and primed with another round.
So much fallout and haven't had to see a drop of it. All on the other side. We had to break into Hannah's old apartment to get her things and unfortunately her mug has been lost to the office. She didn't care. It was all bad memories anyway. I understand. Even her apartment didn't really have anything worth taking. Just the food so it wouldn't spoil, a friendly potted plant and her makeup. That's all she wanted. Then she broke a window, and I trashed the couch and everything else was broken down to splinters and ashes. She took the door off the hinges and I spray painted the windows.
The lights at the back shine and sparked and my little square plays a fun little ditty. A square on the net at the back, labeled 'Homerun,' starts dancing. One of the sides is missing a few bulbs. I think they just twined Christmas lights around it, and the inevitable happened. Either no one noticed, or no one cared. I don't mind, not really. I'm also pretty sure that hitting the tiny square wouldn't necessarily make a home run by the official standards. Probably just go left center field unless the wind decided to help out a smidge.
Getting her settled wasn't even that hard. I have space and she has just as much now. I offered her what I think was the break room once upon a time, but she chose to share the foreman's office with me. Said she was tired of having a tiny bed and even sharing it was still bigger than hers. Anything else that would happen would just be a coincidence, she assured me.
The balls are nice and slow. Not really feeling the whole ninth inning right now. I need the motions and the target. Power and precision. Each one hits that little homerun square and the lights never stop dancing. I don't even tap into my little gray world. I know the machines. I know how they work. It's the same pattern again and again and again. I get a good angle and my shoulder works wonderfully through the strength. The machine's running empty and I'm low on cash. One more round and it all can flow from there.
The good guys haven't come calling. No wasps swarming in their nest and swimming with the sharks. It's nothing and it's beautiful. Nice and quiet and calm. The building's on fire, but I'm down the block getting hammered. Hannah's dealing with none of it and I'm goofing off, just as we should be. It's nice to watch the world crash and burn, even if some of the wreckage is going to land in my backyard.
"And that's the game!" cheered the tinny voice from my little square, "Home team wins!"
I stretch and roll out the kinks in my back, my shoulder, my wrists. My palms still sting a little bit, but I can finally give them some attention. The pain fades and dims and my knuckles make a wonderful crack.
"God, I hate that you do that, Evan," says a wonderful voice from behind me. I smile. I can't help it. I love the voice, even when the words carry the slight suggestion of disgust. I grab the edge of the little square that holds me and twist, the pops rolling up my spine.
"Hey honey," I say, and she shudders. Hannah shudders.
"I hate you so much right now. Have fun?"
"Yeah. I'm all done. Did pretty well if I say so myself."
"Still haven't broken the record though?"
"One day. One day I will. I don't care that Bloody Sunday owns this place. He's going down."
She smiles and rolls her eyes, and my own grin shines back. I eye the heavy duffel she's got with her, slung over her shoulder. Hair's short, shorter than I've seen it before. I swear every other week, it loses an inch. Soon, she'll be rocking a bare scalp. But for now, it has the suggestion of the final shape, a proud jut breaking the sky, pulled up in a pompadour. She's expressed some interest in feathering it out, letting go wild and insane. Just a simple curl and bounce to it today though. Still trying to get her to consider full blown liberty spikes, but I think that's a way off. So, for now, it's all controlled and sleek.
She eyes the duffel too, a slight bit of trepidation sinking into her frame. Nervous, she's nervous. I'm nervous too. The same song and dance I've done for years and it still makes me a little nervous to actually go through with it. I've been on both sides of it, worked with people and gone alone, and still that little pull deep in my stomach works its way up into my mind.
"Are you ready, Beat Down," she asks. There's still that little trill of nerves in the question.
"Whenever you are, Riot Girl," I answer.
---
We wait on the roof of the Lemon Building. Not it's official name, and I don't care to learn it. It just looks like a lemon and if the sun hits it just right, then it turns yellow, kind of a sickly yellow, not a blinding beautiful gold or an ethereal pale of heaven glow, just kind of lemon yellow, but if the lemon had a bad day and was kicked around a bit. Chosen, not for the name or the style, but location. The mayoral mansion sits across the way and some of my friends have taken issue with his civic performance.
Full kit, green leather jacket, hair spiked and fanned up to the clouds, baseball bat sitting on my shoulders, that wonderful weight giving me something to focus on instead of the wind that bites and tells me to let go and fall. There will be time enough for that in a bit. Right now, though, we just sit and watch the whole thing go down. Riot Girl sits like a stone, the training and the regimen still baked into her. Back straight, arms folded, but ready, eyes dead set on the door. It's odd seeing something so stiff in ripped and patched denim, declaring beautiful anarchy to the whole world and reveling in the sheer power of untamed chaos. Still, so absolutely still, so beautifully still.
I reach out and pinch her ass.
She yelps and the stone melts and I feel a shock rip through my chest as a thunderclap pierces my skull. Through the mask, I see the playful anger burn.
"Relax," I say, "I know that saying that won't make you, but you need to relax. It's a different game on this side."
"I know," she says, "But you pinched me. How would you like it if I pinched you?"
"I'd like that very much I think."
She does and I am right. I sit back, smug, and sure of my place in the world and nothing could ever possibly shake that. I pinch her again, on the sides and that wonderful mix of frustration and eager joy crosses her face.
In the gap between us, a face breaks through the void with a terrible grimace.
"Lovebirds," says the distortion, "Stop playing grab ass. We're on the clock."
"Sorry, Doppel," says Riot Girl, "But in my defense, he started it."
"I don't care who started it. One of the looking glasses found the squad car. They're on their way. Get ready. It's going to get real loud, real quick."
"Fuck yeah it is." The face shatters and fades. We are alone again.
The eager joy remains, replaced with something a little more savage. I feel the same surge in my stomach, that same push of nervous electricity. She's still stiff, still statue and stone, but underneath, she starts trembling a little. I feel the earthquake in her body travel through the stone and up my spine. It's a heartbeat, frantic and jackrabbit, and I can't help my mind wandering to the dead of night and the wonderful times we've had together naked and canoodling.
Doppel Gang and his many, many, many, many eyes were correct. The squad car came roaring down the street, tearing pavement and asphalt and concrete, 3 axles screaming with pure speed before screeching to a halt. I sigh. I don't like the squad car. I appreciate it, sure, and its purpose, but it's so military, so commanding and brutish. Something big and strong and momentous and ultimately just kind of a boot to stamp down on the road. I know that's why it is the way it is, and all the wonderful implications it carries on 6 wheels, but something in my soul just wants to smash it to bits. Part of why I chose my line of work really.
Riot Girl stands before showing me her back. I latch on and the world detonates and shatters as she jumps. Loud, I always forget how loud she is, catching thunder and earthquakes with a wall of sound that threatens to turn bone to dust and organs to slurry. I need to invest in some ear protection for this wonderful partnership.
She rocks the squad car, stamping her foot and getting pure church bells in response. I'm still reeling from the impact, the topsy turvy turn of shockwave and descent. She stomps again. I fall off the top.
I steal the moment, turn the world gray. The shockwaves from her little tantrum freeze, resistance from the force. Frazzled, a little shaken, not to worry. New partner, new scene, new everything really. Natural. I'd be more worried if I was feeling fine after all that. And it's not her fault. She's still settling into her role as well, finding what works for her, how she slots in. I have to admit, the banging on the roof is a nice touch. Wish she told me about it, but that can be saved for the postmortem. Deep breath, roll the shoulders, make sure the hair is nice and straight and strong, and I smile.
Color will come back. I will allow it. I can't stay here in the perfect little gray world forever. Every second standing still is a second I can't stand still later. But I do take another heartbeat to watch Riot Girl. The moment of savagery encapsulated on her face, the raw ecstasy of smashing something strong. Something primal, something unfiltered and jagged and wild. And she looks beautiful reveling in her own base instincts. It doesn't hurt that the particular top under the jacket is rather formfitting and I just notice that she forgone a bra.
My station situated and staked, I let time resume its terrible flow once more. The church bells sing and clash and clamor in perfect cacophony. Loud, so wonderfully loud and I grin, lopsided and cocky as a blast comes back and knocks her clear and clean away. She lands in the street a way away, already back up and dusting herself off. The back door slams open and the gathered allies of justice file out and strike what must surely be the most rehearsed set of poses imaginable. I applaud them, cheer and whistle. They worked very, very hard for this moment and I must show appreciation. Their mothers must be so proud.
A little lighter on the whole party than I thought they'd be, but that's fine. It's our job to keep them out of the house the collective goons are currently ransacking. Mostly a symbolic thing at this point. Mayor Hearst is nowhere near here, and it keeps the place lively.
