[hockey] This is your time; this is your life (1/2)
[April 2009]
Title: This is your time; this is your life
Authors: D. Girardi and M. Staal
Cast: Pretty much the entire '07-'08 Blackhawks roster. We're so serious.
Word Count: ridiculous.
Rating: PG-13 for swearing and drugzz.
Summary: ASSASSINS! AU! Except no one actually dies. Ummm, ESPIONAGE! AU!!!
Disclaimer: Lies! All lies! Especially the part where they're ninjas or some shit.
Notes: This thing is so epic we even made a soundtrack for it. Stream it here for a questionably enjoyable reading experience. The title is from the last track, "Keep On Livin'," by Le Tigre.
This is your time; this is your life
To the few souls passing by the corner of Madison and Damen on one particularly humid summer afternoon, the figure on the sidewalk seems vaguely familiar. Maybe not by name or profession, but certainly by the impression he gives, which is that of a determined young man about to embark on a relatively remarkable career. How nice to have your future still ahead of you, they smile to themselves, before the light turns green and they resume the rhythm of their own lives.
They are sorely mistaken.
In reality, Jonathan Toews is shading his eyes from the brass of the sun and trying to remember how he got there. Taxi, his mind suggests, sagging under the full weight of eighty-five soggy degrees, but as for the rest of it, well.
He supposes he could claw his way back to the age of seven, when he knew he was going to play professional hockey for a living, just as soon as he grew up. He knew this the same way he knew his sums, and how to sound out big words, and the somber truth that carrots were good for his eyes, so he had to eat them, even though they sort of tasted like chalk. He could feel it even in the dead of night: the slight sigh of water pipes rumbling to life somewhere underground, which meant that Jonny could expect a fresh sheet of ice in the morning.
Back then, it was just a matter of waiting.
But after ten years, twenty-odd inches, and countless carrots consumed, Jonny started to court the thought that if he had to wait any longer, he would walk right out of his dorm room, straight through downtown Grand Forks, and throw himself into the Red River. Hopefully the waters would recognize his Manitoban blood and carry his corpse back home to to rest underneath the Forks. At least it would be a poetic end, Jonny thought miserably -- someone would write a touching eulogy about his unfulfilled potential, and future generations of hockey hopefuls would skate over his remains every winter, spooking each other with stories about young, noble-hearted Jonathan Toews with the wicked wrist shot, whose dreams were snuffed out so tragically by his own impatience.
It was, Jonny eventually decided, infinitely preferable to the boredom, the uncertainties, the fucking sameness of his life as a mere prospect.
Everything changed, of course, when he found the first letter after practice one morning, peeking out from underneath his water bottle. Jonny picked the envelope up gingerly, afraid of biological warfare, or declarations of passionate love, or both. The content turned out to be innocent enough, however -- bland, polite inquiries about classwork, hockey, his career aspirations with the Blackhawks.
It was signed, Patrick Lalime.
Jonny searched his brain. Lalime was the new backup goaltender, he remembered; a Francophone, and he had decent numbers despite the way Chicago was playing that year. He shrugged, chalked it up to a teammate being nice -- fuckin' weird, but nice all the same -- and forgot to wonder why the envelope didn't have a return address on it.
A second letter appeared the following week, tucked inside the front cover of his macroeconomics textbook. This time, the contents were far less bland, and entirely in French -- Lalime's narrow script careened from margin to margin, telling Jonny about unseen power dynamics within the NHL, the sordid dealings of struggling teams, and pockets of terror that threatened the very core of the sport.
"As one of the league's oldest and most distinguished clubs," Lalime had written, "the Blackhawks have always been deeply committed to preserving the sanctity of the league, no matter what it takes. I've been assigned to this organization specifically to work as a liaison for you, in order to inform and prepare you for what's ahead. Special Ops is not an easy job, but you're one of our top prospects for a reason."
Jonny wasn't exactly prone to hysterics, so instead, he reread the letter nineteen times in a row, in hopes of deciphering what it really said, instead of all that gibberish about nefarious plots, spy jobs on the side, and what was that about Gary Bettman being 'a puppet commissioner, free to say or do nothing of his own will'? Jonny scanned that particular line again.
What the fuck.
Lalime's letters came every week, and it got to the point where Jonny no longer dreaded the sight of a plain white envelope wedged in between his gear, or casually slipped underneath his door. He approached everything that happened as an exercise. In patience. In remaining calm during seemingly dire situations. In not jacking a teammate's car, driving all the way to Chicago to find Lalime, and demanding an explanation. In not freaking the fuck out, basically.
And there were those words, again, every time: top prospect. It might as well have been seared onto Jonny's forehead, for all the times Lalime dropped it into his letters, scorching with expectations that made Jonny's heart race so hard he tasted bile, and maybe it was that inherent knowledge that this was what he was born to do, that finally made him accept what Lalime had to say, if not as fact, then at least not as the delusional ramblings of crusty backup goaltender.
He would simply have to see for himself.
Which, for all intents and purposes, is how Jonathan Toews ends up wilting in front of the United Center in late August, squinting into the sun, and waiting to find out exactly what he signed himself up for.
The earth continues spinning on its axis.
***
Jonny smells the man before he actually saunters into sight. More specifically, Jonny catches several strong whiffs of the cigar smoke that will invade his consciousness over the course of the season, settling little by little as articulated patterns of command, criticism, and occasionally praise.
Lalime's last letter had arrived right before finals week, saying only that he was retiring from Special Ops, and that Jonny was now under the care of one Interim Deputy Director Robert Lang, chain-smoker of very expensive imported Czech cigars, notoriously nomadic information consultant, and temporary replacement for Denis Savard, who could no longer handle both hockey and undercover duties.
"I'll see you at practice," Lalime had written, and that had been the end of their correspondence.
It only made Jonny more determined than ever to get to the bottom of things. Still, the thrill of finally arriving in Chicago, after a summer spent alternately elated (in Moscow) and restless (everywhere else), is somewhat eclipsed by his anxiety at finally confronting the mysteries he's been presented with.
Lang approaches, cigar perched snugly at the side of his mouth, looking crisp and collected in a suit despite the sweltering heat.
Jonny gulps, swats at the air between them, and blurts out, "Sir, is that good for you? I mean, we're still expected to play hockey, aren't we?"
Lang squints at Jonny, but doesn't respond. Instead, he grasps one of Jonny's hands and squeezes perfunctorily, once, twice. "Come with me."
Jonny follows Lang closely as they pass through the players' entrance and head toward what seems to be a janitor's closet, which actually opens to a series of nondescript hallways and staircases. As they walk, Lang launches into a detailed history of Special Ops, his words bouncing off the corridor walls and multiplying into a thick, Czech-accented chorus. Jonny, too preoccupied with trying to commit Lang's rambling to memory while keeping track of his surroundings, forgets to ask any of the pertinent questions, like What the hell? or No, seriously, what is going on?
It's not until Lang starts reciting a list of U.N.-approved weaponry that the Blackhawks may or may not have access to (" -- still haven't thought up a reason to use those fireballs -- ") that it all becomes too much for Jonny's brain to handle.
"But you used to be a Red Wing," Jonny interrupts, desperately trying to recall if they had last taken a right or left turn.
Lang stops abruptly, and Jonny holds his breath, but all Lang says is, "We're here."
Jonny finds himself staring at a door -- a really ugly puce-colored door, above which a bright yellow caution sign hangs crookedly, advising all incomers: BEWARE OF SHARKS.
"Sharks?" Jonny asks blankly. He doesn't know whether to be impressed by Lang's ability to navigate through a labyrinth while giving a full-fledged speech, or afraid of what lies behind the door.
"J.R., that cheeky bastard," Lang chuckles fondly.
Jonny's mind is reeling with questions, but before he can inquire what Jeremy Roenick has to do with anything, Lang nods toward the number pad affixed just above the doorknob and gestures impassively for Jonny to enter the security code.
This one is easy; Jonny punches in 1-9-6-1 without any hesitation, and Lang smiles and says, "Good. Lalime told you the basics."
Jonny bites his tongue and thinks vehemently, Yes, too bad I still have no fucking clue what's going on, but at this point all he can do is follow Lang through the door and absorb the shocks as best he can.
Lost in thought, Jonny barely looks up when Lang stops in front of a desk; consequently, it takes his brain several seconds to identify the man who is currently gazing curiously at him. When his brain finally makes the necessary neural connections, his jaw drops in recognition -- the close-shaven auburn beard from billboards, newspaper articles and all-star game rosters is unmistakable. The two men smile and chatter softly in Czech, before Lang nods in Jonny's direction and leaves, strolling down the hall to his own office.
Jonny is suddenly more nervous than he's been all day; all year, even. He twists his fingers together.
Martin Havlat smiles. "It's nice to finally meet you."
***
Jonny tries hard not to stare. Marty rolls up the sleeves of his Armani shirt and shakes Jonny's hand; Jonny glances at his own shirt and slacks and can't help but feel under-dressed as Marty leads him to a spacious row of cubicles. All his uncertainties about his appearance vanish, however, when he catches his first glimpse of his work station, and instead he focuses on trying not to gasp at the set-up: the expensive equipment, sweet-ass monitor and -- best of all -- spinny chairs. Awesome.
There are computers set up to the left and right of him as well, work stations untidy and disorganized but momentarily empty, and clutter everywhere. There is no bare space to be found on the walls, every inch covered with glossy posters, maps, diagrams and charts. Marty seems unconcerned about the mess, and Jonny decides that he will be too.
Marty perches on the edge of the desk and gestures for Jonny to sit in one of the chairs; he complies obediently, sinking gratefully into a thickly padded cushion. "So," Marty says. "You're Patty's replacement."
"Um," Jonny says brilliantly. "Yeah, I guess so."
Still smiling patiently, Marty forges on. "You come highly recommended. North Dakota, right?"
"Yeah."
"Cool," Marty nods. "The badger came from Wisconsin."
"Uh, okay." Jonny tries hard not to sound confused, and fails miserably. What did badgers have to do with anything? Or Wisconsin, for that matter? What had Jonny gotten himself into?
Jonny must look like the gears in his head are churning at warp speed, because Marty pauses and then sounds a little apologetic when he says, "He's one of the other hackers," while pointing at a tiny, closet-sized room in the corner.
Through the grimy glass window, Jonny thinks he can see several young guys, all wearing t-shirts in primary colors. One of them has teeth too bright, white and straight to be real, and another guy turns around to reveal a shirt that looks like it says:
C:/ DOS
C:/ DOS RUN
RUN / DOS / RUN
Wow. Suddenly, Jonny feels better about his own clothes and relaxes the tiniest bit.
Marty's calm voice snaps him back into reality. " ... languages?"
"Huh?" Jonny blinks. "Sorry, what was the question?"
"How are you with languages?" Marty repeats; it's either the second or seventh time. Jonny hopes it's the former. He also hopes Marty doesn't think he's retarded.
"Not bad," Jonny considers. "English, French. Oh, and enough Russian to get by. It's rusty, though."
Marty laughs, amused. "I meant programming languages."
"Oh, yeah, right. Of course," Jonny feels his ears going red, and for a moment, he wishes the ground would open up and swallow him into the depths of molten hot lava beneath the earth's crust.
Luckily, he's rescued from further humiliation when the main office door takes the opportunity to slam open: An angry, paint-covered man stomps through, bee-lining for Lang's office and bursting through without knocking. It's followed by a sudden outburst of I'M EIGHT MONTHS FROM RETIREMENT AND TOO FUCKING OLD FOR THIS SHIT! before the door shuts behind him, muffling his yelling.
Marty rolls his eyes, but his grin widens as the main door slams open a second time and loud voices filter into the room, new presences invading the hallway: an equally paint-splattered group, clad in all-black, trudging through the office. Jonny cranes his neck in their direction, his embarrassment from mere moments ago already evaporating into thin air as he listens to their bickering with morbid fascination.
"Kaner," one of the guys says, shaking his head. "If that wasn't training, you'd be dead."
Another guy, clothes covered with purple paint, grins. "Um, technically, he and Buff would both be dead."
A third guy, the one who looks like a 12-year-old kid, shakes his head, flinging red paint onto the walls and his companions. "Nuh-uh! I got the angle; I would've sniped him first, so Buff wouldn't even be standing there." That must be Kaner, Jonny thinks to himself. "Right, Buff?"
Buff shrugs and stretches, and Jonny is amazed -- the guy is huge. "Hope so, kid. Either way, Khabby's fuckin' pissed."
As if on cue, Lang emerges from his office, along with the other man -- Khabby, presumably -- still angry, and right on his heels. He looks over at the paint-splattered party and shakes his head, taking another puff from his cigar. "Do I even want to know?"
"No sir," they chorus, their squabbling seemingly sated, at least for the time being.
Lang exhales, and opens his mouth like he's going to say something, and then thinks better of it. He sighs instead, and motions toward where Marty and Jonny are sitting, taking in the whole scene. "Boys, this is Jonny Toews; he's taking over for Patty."
He pauses before addressing Jonny. "Toews, this is the field unit. Until we find you your own place, you'll be rooming with that one," he says, pointing at one of the guys in the group -- the one with the sheepish grin. "Okay? Okay. Now get back to work, all of you," he says, before disappearing back into his office, with Khabby still muttering behind him.
The members of the field unit nod their introductions and disperse, some migrating to the break room, others plunking down in the spinny chairs while ignoring the paint prints that they leave behind. That one steps forward and smiles affably, sticking a hand out for Jonny to shake. "Roommate, huh? Cool. Sup. Brent Seabrook. Seabs. Brent. Whatever."
There is a purple paint streak across his face. Jonny decides not to say anything. "Hi. Jonny."
***
Brent and Kaner (real name: Pat -- never Patrick -- Kane, as Jonny later learns) decide to take it upon themselves to personally familiarize Jonny with everyone in Special Ops. Or at least Brent does, dragging Jonny after him to hole up in the the break room, which doubles as the photocopying room, if the coffee machine wedged between the mini-fridge and fax machine is any indication. Kaner, meanwhile, busies himself by making endless photocopies of his own face, throwing in occasional commentary to Brent's descriptions.
Ticking names off his fingers, Brent runs through job descriptions ("Buff's the muscle; he breaks doors and lifts heavy shit. It's awesome!" and "Old man Sopes is ace. He pretty much hacked the Pentagon one time; it was so sweet. Too bad he's got a raging hard-on for his graphing calculator.") and personalities ("Marty's badass! He used to be one of us, and then he fucked up his shoulders and now he's got dead guys in 'em!" and "Wiz and Burish probably do math equations for fun." and "Sharpie's got a wicked shot and he's stealth as hell; he's a fuckin' ninja!").
He also doesn't hesitate to greet the nervous intern, who knocks tentatively at the door to get another cup of coffee for "Mr. Lang," with great fervor.
"This is Cam Barker!" Brent introduces to Jonny. "Him and Corey Crawford, they're the interns. They do intern shit, whatever that means. I don't know what they do."
"Don't fuck with Barker, he'll shit in your shoes!" Kaner announces passionately, making another copy of his face from yet another angle. "He's hardcore!"
Jonny can feel a headache starting at the back of his skull as Barker flushes with pleasure, no doubt pleased that Brent and Kaner even remember his name, and leaves to take the coffee back to Lang, but not before spilling half of it in the process. Brent resumes enthusing about the rest of the guys, while the green light continues to flash from the photocopier. Kaner must be on at least copy number thirty-five by now.
"Oh, and Duncs!" Brent gestures with his hands, leaning against the mini-fridge and knocking a container of Coffee-Mate off the top of it. He doesn't notice. "Duncan Keith!"
"Badass," Kaner says, loud enough to be heard over the continual hum of the photocopier. "So badass."
"Really?" Jonny humors them. The polite smile that he's been wearing for the last twenty minutes is beginning to feel tight at the corners of his mouth.
"Fuckin' badass," Brent agrees ardently. "Guy drives the getaway van!"
Jonny glances at his watch and, with great effort, uses his most reasonable voice to excuse himself -- it's his first day, he has a lot of work to do, thanks but I really should be getting back; learn the ropes and all, you know how it is.
His hand's on the knob, ready to push his way back into sweet, sweet freedom, when Kaner grabs him by the wrist. "You gotta try the photocopier first, man," he says seriously.
Licking his lips nervously, Jonny narrows his eyes. Are you for real? he wants to say.
"No, no man. You gotta," Kaner reiterates, eyes wide as saucers. Behind him, Brent is nodding in encouragement. "It's good for team-building. Do it. It's awesome. Just, you know, don't open your eyes for it. It hurts like a bitch if you do. Trust me."
***
Jonny falls into the spinny chair at his workstation, the photocopy of his face slightly crumpled in his left hand. Marty catches a glimpse and laughs. "Guess you met Kaner and Seabs?"
"Uh," Jonny glances down at the scrunched up paper in his hand. "Yeah."
"Have a good time?"
"They are ... " Retarded, Jonny wants to say. " ... Nice," he hedges instead.
Marty laughs again and pats him on the shoulder, and then spends the next two hours outlining their objectives, projects and responsibilities. Jonny's headache recedes and a faint trickle of excitement -- of being a part of something, something important -- begins to settle in the pit of his stomach. For the first time all day, the uneasiness subsides, and Jonny can relax enough to focus on the work ahead of him.
As his fingers start flying across the keyboard, the guy in the work station beside him turns to him and grins. He is most definitely wearing a RUN / DOS / RUN shirt. On Jonny's other side, someone else swivels into his line of vision. His shirt says There is no place like 127.0.0.1. Jonny searches his memory, which is overflowing with names, objectives, useless information. He's pretty confident that RUN / DOS / RUN is old man Sopes, and the second guy -- square jaw, still has all his teeth -- must be Adam Burish.
Jonny gets his confirmation a moment later, as Burish hoots triumphantly, pumping both fists in the air. "Let it be known that the Badger just stealth motherfucked his way into the Avs' main server. I am the motherfucking man!"
Jonny can't help but laugh. Burish turns and offers Jonny a fist-pound that he accepts, surprised at the gesture, but also a little pleased.
***
Brent Seabrook took one look around Chicago and decided he wanted to live there forever, so the summer after his rookie year, he bought some graph paper from Target and drew up the floorplans for his dream house. Jonny knows this because Brent spends the entire drive home telling Jonny his life story, as Jonny grips his knees and tries to quell the exasperation flaring back up, like a sinus infection that won't go away.
When they pull up, it becomes painfully evident that Brent Seabrook's idea of a dream house is kind of misguided, bordering on fucked up, starting from the very front. There are seven locks on the front door, a laser alarm system with a twenty-letter security password ("It's actually B-R-E-N-T-A-W-E-S-O-M-E-S-E-A-B-R-O-O-K, which is, like, genius"), and an extremely old mastiff who introduces himself to Jonny with a docile lick of his ankles.
"He didn't have a name until Kaner came over last week," Brent explains. "Now he won't answer to anything but 'Mister Fluffy.'" Jonny is appalled, and hopes it doesn't show on his face, but Brent just shrugs and motions for Jonny to follow him.
The rest of the house is duly presented: The kitchen is spotless and strangely unused, judging from the amount of dust that comes off the counters when Jonny brushes against them. The living room seems to serve the sole purpose of housing shin-high heaps of of game consoles, wires, controllers, and DVD boxes. There's an unfinished tree house built in the backyard, and none of the three bathrooms have soap in them.
Jonny is a little bit traumatized by the den, which has an actual trophy wall, but the only thing mounted on it is a crusty brown turtle shell. Brent catches Jonny's dumbfounded expression and hurriedly waves his hands in a claim of innocence. He explains, "I found it in the backyard one day! It's really cool, I mean, I don't kill household pets or anything like that." They both let out nervous laughs.
When they finally get to the guest bedroom, Jonny is prepared for the worst. But when Brent pushes open the door, the only thing that greets them is nondescript gray carpet and unassuming striped wallpaper. Nothing flashy, nothing out of the ordinary. Jonny sighs, somewhat placated, and starts hauling in his suitcase and duffel bag.
He's in the middle of unpacking when he hears rustling from behind, followed by the sound of tape ripping. He turns around to catch Brent attaching the now-extremely wrinkled photocopy of Jonny's face to the door.
After a few moments of biting back choice expletives, Jonny finally chokes out, "Is that really necessary?"
Brent says brightly, "It's better than a name tag, don't you think? You almost forgot it on your desk when we left."
Jonny's annoyance has started to accessorize: sledgehammer, bitch boots. "No, I mean -- why did I have to photocopy my face in the first place?"
Brent is still grinning. "We told you, it's just something we do as part of the team."
Jonny finds that he's finally used up all of his restraint, which has been stretched thin for so long, starting with the first letter, and ending here, now, with a lousy piece of paper stuck to his door. Like a balloon slowly inflating past its threshold, bulging dangerously with everything inside, and Jonny can almost feel the pinprick bursting everything wide open.
He explodes. "Do you know how stupid that sounds? What the fuck does this have to do with being part of a team? And what about the rest of this bullshit? Why am I living here with you? Why did you let some idiot kid name your dog Mister Fluffy? Seriously, what's wrong with you?"
Jonny stops to catch his breath, trying to ignore the anger and confusion pounding in his chest, trying to pull himself back together.
He looks away from Brent's face, which has collapsed into dismay, so it comes as a surprise when Brent finally speaks, and his voice comes out steady and fierce -- almost defiant. "We're not playing games. You think we're dumb and fucked up, well, maybe we are. But we take this shit seriously too."
Jonny opens his mouth to reply, but Brent cuts him off.
"It's time for dinner." And with that, he turns and disappears down the hall.
***
Dinner, as it turns out, is a plate of burnt toast, dried-out carrot sticks, and a giant bottle of orange Gatorade. The crunch-crunch-crunch of their ingestion makes it difficult for Jonny to apologize, but he remembers Lang's quick but firm handshake, the brief moments of solace he'd felt while occupied with work, and the way Marty had showered Jonny liberally with praise all afternoon, and decides to try his best.
He swallows with some difficulty, but manages, he hopes, a convincing grin. "So, uh. Ever thought about hiring a cook?"
Jonny didn't think it was possible, but Brent's face, stony since their confrontation, crumples. "My old roommate, Vandy -- before he -- got reassigned -- " He looks away.
Unsure of what to say, Jonny stuffs a piece of toast in his mouth and tries not to chew too loudly.
"Anyway, I'm not too good around the kitchen, as you can tell," Brent concludes ruefully.
Jonny is starting to wonder if maybe Lang sent him to live here not to be taken care of, but to make sure Brent doesn't die of malnutrition. Strangely enough, he finds that he can live with this arrangement.
He clears his throat. "I can make pasta. And some other dishes. I know it's not much, but I wouldn't mind -- I mean, if you'll let me." It's not even close to Sorry, sorry I was an asshole, but Jonny hopes it'll be enough, for now, at least.
Brent stares, expression unreadable, and Jonny can feel himself starting to flush under the scrutiny, until he finally hears, "Okay. Okay, yeah, that'd be cool," and lets out a breath he's been holding for far too long.
***
At 9:03 a.m. the next day, Jonny thinks he's broken the security system.
"What the fucking fuck!" he screams, as his dual monitor desktop spasms with lines of mangled code.
Sopel peers around the edge of his cubicle and blinks slowly. "What's up, kid?"
"THIS!" Jonny gestures forcefully at the script that fills both screens.
Jonny can't comprehend the pleased expression that dawns on the other man's face. "Oh!" Sopel exclaims. "D'you like it?"
"Um. What ... is it, exactly?" Jonny asks cautiously, mentally clutching at the relief of knowing that whatever it was, it wasn't his fault.
"It's my portion of the security system." Sopel is absolutely beaming at this point. "Malbolge."
Jonny tries and fails spectacularly at keeping the shock out of his voice. "You -- you used an esoteric programming language for the security system? How did -- I don't -- that's not even possible, is it?"
Sopel looks unconcerned. "Pfft. That's nothing."
Oh right, Jonny remembers, he hacked into the Pentagon. For fun. He bravely resists the urge to plant his face onto his ergonomic keyboard. Suddenly the field guys seem like normal, functioning, rational human beings. "So, um, the whole thing is written in Malbolge?"
Burish pipes up from the cubicle behind Jonny's. "Course not; what d'you take us for, newbs?"
Jonny turns to face Burish, who raises his right hand solemnly. "I coded my part in SPL."
When Jonny doesn't immediately respond, Burish grins impishly. "That's Shakespeare, since I graduated from college and everything." He looks excessively proud of his accomplishment. Jonny vaguely recalls playing against UW his first college season; Burish was their brash, wild-eyed captain who was extremely loud and leaned in incredibly close during faceoffs, as if trying to physically force Jonny off-balance.
"Wait," he protests. "Who the fuck combines Shakespeare with Malbolge?"
Burish just tilts his head, like he finds Jonny's criticism amusing, and says, "Forsooth, dude, thou dost not understand the badger's art." He poses theatrically for effect, before breaking from character. "And it's not just Sopes and me, either; Wiz did an entire section in Piet -- "
" -- That's the one with the colored bitmaps," Sopel chips in helpfully.
Burish lowers his voice conspiratorially. "I think he was on acid the weekend he started coding it."
Jonny wants to die a little. "But, I mean, there's gotta be a general script underpinning all of this, right? Something a little more, ah, accessible? What does Marty use?"
The grins on Sopel and Burish's faces are equally gleeful. Sopel turns back to his computer and types in a command. "See for yourself, young grasshopper."
Jonny cranes his neck to see the screen. The script registers:
HAI
CAN HAS STDIO?
I HAS A VAR
GIMMEH VAR
VISIBLE "You said " N VAR N " !!"
KTHXBYE
Jonny's legs buckle under the weight of this new revelation, and he falls out of his chair. He stays on the floor for a long time, studiously ignoring the twin cackling of Sopel and Burish, and contemplates remaining there for the next few hours. Or maybe eternity.
***
To Jonny's eternal gratitude, the universe stays out of his grill for the rest of the day, and the rest of his first week is mercifully uneventful as well, until Kaner gets his face stuck inside Khabby's goalie mask ("But it would've made such an awesome photocopy!") and Khabby threatens to have Kaner castrated.
Still, between these minor incidences of lunacy, Jonny's life manages to settle into a predictable, though doubtlessly bizarre routine. He makes breakfast every day, a traditional meat-and-eggs combination for himself, while Brent has pledged unwavering loyalty to Pop Tarts and gooey peanut butter-and-jelly concoctions. They're on their third toaster set, after Brent managed to get a bagel permanently stuck in the first one, and Jonny discovered the corpse of the second one while emptying the dishwasher one evening, still a bit sudsy and useless forevermore.
The hockey part of his life is easier to grapple with. When training starts, Jonny finds that he isn't nervous at all, not after dealing with the stress of Special Ops. The only time he feels butterflies is when he is first introduced to Patty Lalime, but even that dissipates when the other man smiles and clasps his shoulder warmly in greeting. Jonny grins, relieved, and soon they are chatting away in French like old friends. Morning practice and game nights soon become the only times when the world is aligned on its rightful axis, when Jonny's skin feels like his own, when he breathes quick and easy.
It hasn't been difficult to balance hockey with his other training, either. Mostly, Jonny cocoons himself inside his cubicle, works on cases, and tries to remember the interns' names. His attempts at avoiding Brent and Kaner's gossip sessions in the break room become increasingly half-hearted, and he genuinely finds himself having fun with the other techies, excecuting elaborate pranks on Lang's inbox and occasionally rewiring the intercom with Wiz's terrible techno music in order to cut through the afternoon stupor.
The first two months pass by in a flurry: pastry wrappers in the morning, stick tape in the locker room, and Post-It notes pressed onto Jonny's desk, delineating the day's tasks. Jonny scores goals, talks to the press, hacks the shit out of the NHL database, and wonders absently when something more is going to happen. Not that Jonny isn't satisfied with finally playing in the NHL and saving the world (or whatever they're doing) on the side, but given the steady build-up of his expectations ever since he found out what it really meant to be a part of the Blackhawks organization, it's getting to the point where Jonny can't help but wonder if maybe it really is a hoax, after all.
Then, one Tuesday in November, as Jonny spins idly in his computer chair and nurses an itch of self-pity, the P.A. system crackles to life, and it's not "Sandstorm" that blares from the speakers, but Lang's voice, announcing solemnly: Everybody, it's time.
All of a sudden, Jonny is on the move, gathering his mission materials, just as he's been taught by all the training manuals Marty tossed his way.
***
It's not until they hit the Indiana border that Jonny finds out what their mission objective actually is. He's been doing a lot of data gathering lately, mostly spreadsheets and shit, but the hackers aren't exactly kept in the loop as far as actual missions go. When they tell him, Jonny's life flashes before his eyes. ("You should take the first mission," Sopel had suggested coyly two weeks earlier. "I'm too old, Adam and Wiz are too hyper, and Marty trusts you a lot." Jonny had shrugged his assent, and turned his attention back to building an algorithm for beating Minesweeper on expert level.)
"So let me get this straight," he says, for the hundredth time. The van -- an honest to god unmarked white van, into which six full-grown hockey players and one man-boy are crammed -- chugs merrily along I-94, unaware of its final destination, or the magnitude of chaos its occupants are bent on unleashing once they get there. Jonny never thought he'd feel envious of an automobile.
He sighs, and says for the hundred-and-first time, "So let me get this straight. We're going to Detroit -- "
"Mm-hmm," Brent nods good naturedly, oblivious to the way Jonny has been flexing his hands into fists for the past ten minutes.
" -- Because Rick Nash is smuggling illegal substances -- "
Kaner flicks a half-eaten gummy bear at Khabby's head. "Yep."
" -- And he's storing them in Al the Octopus." Jonny's voice rises dangerously. "The fucking inflatable mascot."
Sharpie shrugs from the passenger seat. "Stranger things have happened. It's the Central Division, man, teams are desperate and shit is fucked up. Anyway, we gotta get there before the Blue Jackets do, and the game's tomorrow night."
"Okay, but why can't we, you know, call the cops?" Jonny demands to know.
Sharpie shakes his head. "Would they believe us? I mean, you don't even believe us."
He has a point. "Okay, fine," Jonny says. "But can someone at least explain to me why Kaner is dressed like that?"
The kid is clad head to toe in black: turtleneck, sweatpants, gloves, toque, and even his sneakers have been filled in with black marker. Brent and Buff suddenly develop identical fixations on the scenery outside, and Khabby lets out a snort of indignation from the backseat.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, at least take off the ski mask," Sharpie begs. "You'll get us all thrown in jail."
"Whatever," Kaner retorts. "Don't be hating 'cuz I'm fly."
The van erupts in laughter, and Jonny joins in, feeling a little less tense -- if not quite reassured -- about the state of things.
***
The Joe is almost as old as Khabby, and twice as glum. Duncan drops them off half a mile from the arena, and they pick their way along the riverwalk to their planned site of entry.
Jonny grins when they get to the shipment garage and he sees the lone electronic lock separating the field unit from their scheduled mayhem; this is almost as fun as hockey, he thinks, cracking his knuckles and getting to work.
Twenty-six seconds later, he sits back on his heels and sighs contentedly. With an antiquated system like Detroit's, Z-E-T-T-E-R-B-E-R-G-R-U-L-E-S-C-R-O-S-B-Y-D-R-O-O-L-S would make a more secure passcode than their current setting.
The others don't seem to know that, though, and they stare at Jonny like he's just cured cancer.
"Whoa," Brent breathes.
"Double whoa," Kaner adds eloquently.
"Oh my god," Jonny says. "It really wasn't -- "
The rest of his sentence is engulfed, along with his whole head, by a pair of arms that smell like butter. From somewhere far away, Jonny can hear Buff's voice say solemnly, "You're our favorite."
And then he's released, and the field team vanishes into the arena.
Jonny shakes his head; since his services are no longer needed, he starts to make his way back to the van. He's no less than fifty feet away from the arranged location, however, when he hears the distinct chords of an old female empowerment anthem, the kind his mother used to put on repeat when his dad had to work late.
God bless Mother Nature, she's a single woman too
She took off to heaven and she did what she had to do
She taught every angel to rearrange the sky
So that each and every woman could find her perfect guy
It's Raining Men! Hallelujah!
It's Raining Men! Amen!
To make things worse, someone is singing along in a shaky falsetto that cracks with every other syllable. As Jonny inches toward the source, he realizes with unequivocal horror that it could only be one person.
Sure enough, as he rounds the last corner, he is greeted by the sight of Duncan Keith, arm dangling out the open window, feet propped up on the dashboard, eyes closed, tossing his head from side to side as he belts his lungs out.
Jonny is too stunned to do more than stand in the middle of the street with a stupefied expression on his face, even though his mind silently contemplates two dozen different ways of fleeing the scene. Maybe he could join the circus, brush up on his knife-throwing skills; maybe he could walk to Alaska like that one dude, except without the whole dying in the snow part; maybe Shane Doan needs another farmhand for his Christian horse ranch. But before Jonny can take that first step to freedom, Duncan catches sight of him and abruptly shuts off the music.
They both stare warily. Duncan runs a hand through his hair. Jonny scratches the back of his neck. Finally, Jonny's grotesque curiosity gets the better of him; he makes his way around to the passenger seat and hops in.
He thinks he could have some fun with this, especially considering the way Duncan is studiously avoiding looking at him or even breathing. So Jonny raises his eyebrows and puts on his best I'm-silently-judging-you-right-now voice. "Are you serious?"
Duncan twitches and snaps back resentfully, "You try doing this job for a living and see how well you deal!"
For the second time that day, Jonny thinks maybe someone has a point. "I hope you know that this is so fucked up," he says, staring out the window.
"What is?" Duncan leans forward to fiddle with the archaic-looking radio dials, and through the cranky, old speakers, static suddenly crackles to life.
"This." Jonny indicates to, well, everything. "This shit can't be normal."
Duncan flicks the radio tuner to AM and scrolls through stations rapidly, still avoiding Jonny's inquisitive gaze. "Someone's gotta do it, man."
Jonny tries his hardest not to do his best impression of a petulant twelve-year-old. "It's stupid."
Finally, Duncan looks over at him, and then slowly says, "I have three words for you." He draws out the next syllables. "Rick. Tocchet."
"That's two words!"
"Oh, okay." Duncan scratches the back of his neck, considering. "Uh. Rick Tocchet ... Gretzky?" he tries again.
Jonny just stares at him blankly.
Duncan glances at him sideways. "Who do you think busted the Coyotes gambling ring last season, man? You don't even want to know how long it took us to figure that shit out," he explains patiently, as if Jonny were some dumb kid, like Kaner. "And all the undercover missions, and the fuckin' disguises ... "
Duncan shudders, reliving some horrible memory that Jonny definitely is not going to ask about. Finally, he shakes his head. "Anyway, the point is, what we do is important, okay?"
Jonny's still gawking at him, opening and closing his mouth silently like a fish out of water, so Duncan takes it as his cue to barrel on. "It's not that bad, kid. You just gotta remember to split your attention between this shit and hockey. Not like last year -- we worked too hard at busting the gambling ring, and we, um. Well. We forgot to make the playoffs."
Heaving a sigh, Jonny guess that deep down, way deep down, he maybe even gets it. Maybe. He opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by Buff's voice emitting from the van's shitty speakers. Hey, Big Mama? You there?
"Big Mama?" Jonny whispers to Duncan, quirking an eyebrow.
The reply he gets is a quick shoulder shrug. "The van," Duncan whispers back, unconcerned. He stretches and punches in a series of numbers into the prehistoric head unit, which proves to be much more elaborate than at first glance. Jonny guesses that the whole thing has been set up to allow for direct contact with the field team, and finds himself faintly impressed by the mishmash of old and new technology.
Suddenly, Duncan looks a little embarrassed. The tips of his ears turn pink, and after a few moments, he finally rolls his eyes and mumbles, "Talk dirty to me. Uh. Over."
Jonny almost chokes in surprise as a crackly Kaner-squawk of victory trickles through the speakers: "Sharpie, you said there was no way in hell I could get him to say it! You owe me five bucks!"
Beneath Sharpie's muffled grumbling (" -- probably cheated -- "), Khabby's voice filters through, clearly irritated. "Why must I carry a Batman knapsack? WHY?"
"Step off, okay?" Even through the choppy reception, Kaner sounds indignant. "I was making photocopies, and Langer came in and was all, 'Bring a bag, Kaner,' and I was like, 'What kind of bag? My hockey bag? My golf bag?' and he was like, 'Bring a bag that's the right size for what you need' and I was all, 'But how do I know?' and he was like, 'Just ... bring a bag and stop wasting the office supplies' and then he left, and I totally had this one kicking around so it's the one we gots to use. It's from, like, when I was in the fift -- I mean, first grade. It's long-lasting, guys."
Khabby snorts. Jonny gets a mental image of the goalie rolling his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose, probably wishing for a stiff drink, and stifles his amusement. "Fine, fine, I don't care. I'm too old for this shit."
And on and on it goes, accompanied by occasional clattering, presumably a symptom of the field team making its way (stealthily, Jonny hopes) through the passageways of the arena.
Finally, Brent's voice crackles over the radio. "Sup, Duncs. It's all good for now -- we found where they're stashing Al, and shit. And, uh. We'll let you know when we grab the goods, 'cuz we'll be back your way. Seabs-awesome, out."
Staticky white noise filters through the van's tinny speakers once more, and Jonny sits up straighter, shaking his head in disbelief. Duncan notices and shrugs sympathetically. "Can't choose your teammates," he says.
Jonny takes a moment to mull this over. Technically, everything Duncan has said is true, and things could probably be much worse. If Jonny's being honest with himself, there's a small part of him that has already accepted the company of this motley crew, and as for the rest of him, well, he supposes it'll get better with time.
He finally says, as a truce, "So who used to be me? I mean, who used to come and sit in the van?"
"Oh, uh." Duncan considers the question while fiddling with the radio dials. "Patty, mostly, before he gave this up to go take care of his kids; there was some kind of clause in his contract, I dunno. Sometimes Vandy, before was reassigned. Marty came with us a few times after he transferred from the field unit to tech services. He used to show me pictures of cats with words on them. They were funny."
Jonny processes this information, and considers telling Duncan about LOLcode, but decides not to after all.
***
It's not long before Buff, Khabby, and Sharpie arrive, clambering noisily through the back doors of the van and interrupting Jonny's intense staring contest with the pigeons outside his window. Buff is panting and grinning, Khabby looks less unimpressed with the world than usual, and Sharpie has the aforementioned Batman schoolbag slung over his shoulder.
"Dude," Sharpie says, grinning so hard it looks like his face might split wide open. "We're fucking awesome."
Jonny nods and grins back before asking, "Where are Kaner and Seabs?" It's not like he's concerned or anything; just curious, maybe.
Khabby scowls, glaring out the window almost as if he could will them to appear inside the van at any moment now. "We split up," he says shortly. "They should be back soon." And then, under his breath, "Fuck this, I'm too old to baby-sit."
"They still have the audio hook-up," Buff gasps helpfully, face still flushed from exertion. Idly, Jonny wonders why they can't be this straightforward all the time, and watches as Duncan leans forward in his seat and presses down on the intercom button.
"Kaner, Seabs, where are you? We gotta get out of here!"
"A little busy right now, Duncs," Kaner's voice huffs breathlessly over the speakers.
There's a long pause in between coherent words, filled with snippets of sounds -- swearing, mostly, and some stomping, and maybe the sound of solid objects slamming against one another. Jonny swallows nervously. Then, Brent's voice crackles through the speakers, yelling, "Fuck this shit!" followed by muffled thumping, a loud crash, and then white noise once more.
Duncan frantically twists the radio dials, scanning the airwaves for the faintest sliver of communication, but to no avail. Jonny tries hard not to fidget as everybody else in the van exchanges uncomfortable glances. A minute passes, then two. Then five, and then five more. Still no sign of Brent or Kaner. The silence in the van thickens into twitchy concern. Jonny tries to recall what the training manuals said if a teammate ever got stuck inside Joe Louis Arena (seriously, what the fuck!); he scans his mental index, desperately trying to grasp something, anything.
Nothing. He tries not to assume the worst.
Finally, Duncan is the one who breaks the silence. "Can't deal," he mutters under his breath, clenching and unclenching his hands around the steering wheel. He clears his throat and turns around to address everyone else. "Any ideas?"
Another round of worried silence, before finally, Khabby stretches, joints cracking, and says, "Guess we're going back in for them."
Just then, there's a sudden crashing sound on the top of the van, which causes everyone inside to jump out of their skins. It definitely sounds like it could be two humanoid bodies landing ungracefully from a decent height. The entire van shakes. Unprepared for the sudden, jarring movement, Jonny grabs on to the dashboard for dear life.
For the second time that afternoon, the back doors of the van explode open. This time, Brent and Kaner come tumbling in, knocking over both Sharpie and a delighted Buff in the process, before slamming the doors behind them, both shouting a variation of FUCKING DRIVE! and GO GO GO GO GO!
Duncan doesn't need to be told twice. He shifts gears and slams down on the pedal, screeching around corners, dodging vehicles in congested lanes and skillfully evading traffic cops until they're safely cruising along the highway again.
By this time, Kaner has already peeled off his black gloves and black toque, and is halfway through an elaborate retelling of his and Brent's daring escape from the dastardly Jared Boll. Buff, fascinated, hangs on to Kaner's every word, while Sharpie checks to make sure they've still got all their gear. Behind him, Khabby remains slouched in his seat, staring out the window and periodically muttering something that sounds suspiciously like too old for this shit.
Jonny gives it another few minutes, until he's sure that there will be no risk of whiplash from Duncan's driving, before craning his head around to seek out Brent. "Where the fuck were you guys?" he demands, peering suspiciously, still just curious, or maybe a little bit concerned as well.
Brent grins lopsidedly at him. "Don't look at me, man, it's not my fault Kaner decided to play Batman or some shit like that."
***
The van finally shudders to a standstill when Duncan parks crookedly in the players' lot, and Khabby wordlessly leads the field unit down to headquarters, where everybody else is just coming back from an off-ice workout session. He snatches the backpack from Sharpie ("You're welcome," Sharpie mutters under his breath), and throws it at Langer, who attempts to juggle the Batman bag and his damp towel for several seconds before resigning himself to having wet hair for the time being and calling an impromptu meeting to debrief.
"Are the goods in here?" Langer asks, unzipping the knapsack and warping Batman's face in the process.
There are collective nods from the field team. Everybody else watches in anticipation.
Langer nods solemnly. "Good," he says, and then reaches for his hockey gloves, slipping them on before reaching into the bag and rooting around. Jonny wonders if that's even necessary -- they seem to act as more of a hindrance than anything else.
Kaner clears his throat, "It wasn't easy, guys. Jared Boll saw us, man. He came after us, that crazy motherfucker! But Seabs took him down!" He makes a fist and smacks it into his other palm, to demonstrate.
Ducking his head a little, Brent grins. "Shit, that's nothing; you should have seen Jonny here with the security code." Jonny snaps to attention at the mention of his name, and blinks in Brent's direction as he continues. "He was awesome! He's a genius!"
Latching onto this, Kaner nods with enthusiasm, and suddenly everybody is talking over each other, offering their approval:
"It's true! He was so stealth ... "
" ... magic ... "
" ... more normal than most of the psychos I have to drive around ... "
" ... reliable enough to not give me a fucking stroke ... "
" ... he's our favorite!" Buff crows happily, throwing an arm around Jonny's shoulders, and suddenly everybody's crowding around them, slapping his back and trying to give him noogies and grinning wide, so wide, at him.
Their excitement is instantly stalled, however, by the next words out of Lang's mouth, uttered while pulling fistful of pills out of the deflated likeness of Al the Octopus. "These are ... legal. Boys, this is an inflatable octopus full of Nyquil and laxatives."
Khabby looks like he's ready to spear someone in the groin. "Are you serious? We drove to Michigan to pull off a drug bust, and it was cough medicine the whole time?"
"And laxatives!" Kaner pipes up helpfully. Khabby glowers witheringly in his direction; Jonny cringes on his behalf and can't decide if Kaner is incredibly stupid, or kind of oddly brave.
"You know," Lang says slowly, deflecting Khabby's fury. "This could be big, boys. Huge. We could have stopped something dastardly. What if Rick Nash was going to use the Nyquil and the laxatives on the Red Wings?" His monologue quickens with his sudden inspiration. "Who knows what lengths he could have gone to in order to get a playoff spot? There would have been puke and shit everywhere. Or worse, who knows what the greater plan is? Maybe this is part of something huge."
There is a collective murmur that goes around the room, as everyone considers this possibility. Finally, Sopel speaks up from the back of the crowd. "So," he drawls. "The day is saved?"
"Um, I guess it is?" Duncan says, looking and sounding just as confused as Jonny feels.
Lang nods vigorously, like he's trying to convince everybody -- including himself -- that this is the rational explanation. "Okay, meeting dismissed, I guess. You did a great job on this one, boys. Everybody, great job. And, uh, there's no game tomorrow, so ... happy hour?"
A collective cheer goes up in the locker room in anticipation for getting shit-faced in the wake of their accomplishment. An entire month had been spent working up to the bust, even if it did turn out to be over-the-counter shit, probably from fuckin' Walgreens. Still, Jonny thinks, it could be so much fucking worse -- at least they all made it out alive.
On his way out of the locker room, someone grabs Jonny by the arm. It's Wiz. Behind him are the other hackers, all of them smiling appraisingly at him.
"Hey kid," Wiz says. "So you were real clutch with the security code, huh? Way to go, man."
"Heard it was almost as good as your goal against Colorado," Burish confides, nodding in approval.
"Fuck, you're one of us for real," Sopel adds, before breaking into a smile and throwing a balled up t-shirt at Jonny. "Wear it to happy hour, okay?" and then shuffles out of the room with everyone else, before Jonny can even say thanks or even seriously, what the fuck?
Consequently, he's alone when he unfolds the shirt, and silently mouths the slogan painted in capital letters across the front:
OCT 31 = DEC 25
He grins. None of this has been easy for him, especially the mission itself, but despite the neverending adjustment period, the discomfort of essentially living a double life, and the vast collection of misgivings minnowing inside his head -- despite all of that, these last few months haven't been as terrible as Jonny once feared. In fact, between this dorky t-shirt and the round of congratulations he'd received during the meeting, Jonny thinks maybe he can get used to this. Whatever this turns out to be.
He pulls the shirt over his head. It's a size too large. Jonny finds that he doesn't mind.
***
continued here.
Title: This is your time; this is your life
Authors: D. Girardi and M. Staal
Cast: Pretty much the entire '07-'08 Blackhawks roster. We're so serious.
Word Count: ridiculous.
Rating: PG-13 for swearing and drugzz.
Summary: ASSASSINS! AU! Except no one actually dies. Ummm, ESPIONAGE! AU!!!
Disclaimer: Lies! All lies! Especially the part where they're ninjas or some shit.
Notes: This thing is so epic we even made a soundtrack for it. Stream it here for a questionably enjoyable reading experience. The title is from the last track, "Keep On Livin'," by Le Tigre.
This is your time; this is your life
To the few souls passing by the corner of Madison and Damen on one particularly humid summer afternoon, the figure on the sidewalk seems vaguely familiar. Maybe not by name or profession, but certainly by the impression he gives, which is that of a determined young man about to embark on a relatively remarkable career. How nice to have your future still ahead of you, they smile to themselves, before the light turns green and they resume the rhythm of their own lives.
They are sorely mistaken.
In reality, Jonathan Toews is shading his eyes from the brass of the sun and trying to remember how he got there. Taxi, his mind suggests, sagging under the full weight of eighty-five soggy degrees, but as for the rest of it, well.
He supposes he could claw his way back to the age of seven, when he knew he was going to play professional hockey for a living, just as soon as he grew up. He knew this the same way he knew his sums, and how to sound out big words, and the somber truth that carrots were good for his eyes, so he had to eat them, even though they sort of tasted like chalk. He could feel it even in the dead of night: the slight sigh of water pipes rumbling to life somewhere underground, which meant that Jonny could expect a fresh sheet of ice in the morning.
Back then, it was just a matter of waiting.
But after ten years, twenty-odd inches, and countless carrots consumed, Jonny started to court the thought that if he had to wait any longer, he would walk right out of his dorm room, straight through downtown Grand Forks, and throw himself into the Red River. Hopefully the waters would recognize his Manitoban blood and carry his corpse back home to to rest underneath the Forks. At least it would be a poetic end, Jonny thought miserably -- someone would write a touching eulogy about his unfulfilled potential, and future generations of hockey hopefuls would skate over his remains every winter, spooking each other with stories about young, noble-hearted Jonathan Toews with the wicked wrist shot, whose dreams were snuffed out so tragically by his own impatience.
It was, Jonny eventually decided, infinitely preferable to the boredom, the uncertainties, the fucking sameness of his life as a mere prospect.
Everything changed, of course, when he found the first letter after practice one morning, peeking out from underneath his water bottle. Jonny picked the envelope up gingerly, afraid of biological warfare, or declarations of passionate love, or both. The content turned out to be innocent enough, however -- bland, polite inquiries about classwork, hockey, his career aspirations with the Blackhawks.
It was signed, Patrick Lalime.
Jonny searched his brain. Lalime was the new backup goaltender, he remembered; a Francophone, and he had decent numbers despite the way Chicago was playing that year. He shrugged, chalked it up to a teammate being nice -- fuckin' weird, but nice all the same -- and forgot to wonder why the envelope didn't have a return address on it.
A second letter appeared the following week, tucked inside the front cover of his macroeconomics textbook. This time, the contents were far less bland, and entirely in French -- Lalime's narrow script careened from margin to margin, telling Jonny about unseen power dynamics within the NHL, the sordid dealings of struggling teams, and pockets of terror that threatened the very core of the sport.
"As one of the league's oldest and most distinguished clubs," Lalime had written, "the Blackhawks have always been deeply committed to preserving the sanctity of the league, no matter what it takes. I've been assigned to this organization specifically to work as a liaison for you, in order to inform and prepare you for what's ahead. Special Ops is not an easy job, but you're one of our top prospects for a reason."
Jonny wasn't exactly prone to hysterics, so instead, he reread the letter nineteen times in a row, in hopes of deciphering what it really said, instead of all that gibberish about nefarious plots, spy jobs on the side, and what was that about Gary Bettman being 'a puppet commissioner, free to say or do nothing of his own will'? Jonny scanned that particular line again.
What the fuck.
Lalime's letters came every week, and it got to the point where Jonny no longer dreaded the sight of a plain white envelope wedged in between his gear, or casually slipped underneath his door. He approached everything that happened as an exercise. In patience. In remaining calm during seemingly dire situations. In not jacking a teammate's car, driving all the way to Chicago to find Lalime, and demanding an explanation. In not freaking the fuck out, basically.
And there were those words, again, every time: top prospect. It might as well have been seared onto Jonny's forehead, for all the times Lalime dropped it into his letters, scorching with expectations that made Jonny's heart race so hard he tasted bile, and maybe it was that inherent knowledge that this was what he was born to do, that finally made him accept what Lalime had to say, if not as fact, then at least not as the delusional ramblings of crusty backup goaltender.
He would simply have to see for himself.
Which, for all intents and purposes, is how Jonathan Toews ends up wilting in front of the United Center in late August, squinting into the sun, and waiting to find out exactly what he signed himself up for.
The earth continues spinning on its axis.
***
Jonny smells the man before he actually saunters into sight. More specifically, Jonny catches several strong whiffs of the cigar smoke that will invade his consciousness over the course of the season, settling little by little as articulated patterns of command, criticism, and occasionally praise.
Lalime's last letter had arrived right before finals week, saying only that he was retiring from Special Ops, and that Jonny was now under the care of one Interim Deputy Director Robert Lang, chain-smoker of very expensive imported Czech cigars, notoriously nomadic information consultant, and temporary replacement for Denis Savard, who could no longer handle both hockey and undercover duties.
"I'll see you at practice," Lalime had written, and that had been the end of their correspondence.
It only made Jonny more determined than ever to get to the bottom of things. Still, the thrill of finally arriving in Chicago, after a summer spent alternately elated (in Moscow) and restless (everywhere else), is somewhat eclipsed by his anxiety at finally confronting the mysteries he's been presented with.
Lang approaches, cigar perched snugly at the side of his mouth, looking crisp and collected in a suit despite the sweltering heat.
Jonny gulps, swats at the air between them, and blurts out, "Sir, is that good for you? I mean, we're still expected to play hockey, aren't we?"
Lang squints at Jonny, but doesn't respond. Instead, he grasps one of Jonny's hands and squeezes perfunctorily, once, twice. "Come with me."
Jonny follows Lang closely as they pass through the players' entrance and head toward what seems to be a janitor's closet, which actually opens to a series of nondescript hallways and staircases. As they walk, Lang launches into a detailed history of Special Ops, his words bouncing off the corridor walls and multiplying into a thick, Czech-accented chorus. Jonny, too preoccupied with trying to commit Lang's rambling to memory while keeping track of his surroundings, forgets to ask any of the pertinent questions, like What the hell? or No, seriously, what is going on?
It's not until Lang starts reciting a list of U.N.-approved weaponry that the Blackhawks may or may not have access to (" -- still haven't thought up a reason to use those fireballs -- ") that it all becomes too much for Jonny's brain to handle.
"But you used to be a Red Wing," Jonny interrupts, desperately trying to recall if they had last taken a right or left turn.
Lang stops abruptly, and Jonny holds his breath, but all Lang says is, "We're here."
Jonny finds himself staring at a door -- a really ugly puce-colored door, above which a bright yellow caution sign hangs crookedly, advising all incomers: BEWARE OF SHARKS.
"Sharks?" Jonny asks blankly. He doesn't know whether to be impressed by Lang's ability to navigate through a labyrinth while giving a full-fledged speech, or afraid of what lies behind the door.
"J.R., that cheeky bastard," Lang chuckles fondly.
Jonny's mind is reeling with questions, but before he can inquire what Jeremy Roenick has to do with anything, Lang nods toward the number pad affixed just above the doorknob and gestures impassively for Jonny to enter the security code.
This one is easy; Jonny punches in 1-9-6-1 without any hesitation, and Lang smiles and says, "Good. Lalime told you the basics."
Jonny bites his tongue and thinks vehemently, Yes, too bad I still have no fucking clue what's going on, but at this point all he can do is follow Lang through the door and absorb the shocks as best he can.
Lost in thought, Jonny barely looks up when Lang stops in front of a desk; consequently, it takes his brain several seconds to identify the man who is currently gazing curiously at him. When his brain finally makes the necessary neural connections, his jaw drops in recognition -- the close-shaven auburn beard from billboards, newspaper articles and all-star game rosters is unmistakable. The two men smile and chatter softly in Czech, before Lang nods in Jonny's direction and leaves, strolling down the hall to his own office.
Jonny is suddenly more nervous than he's been all day; all year, even. He twists his fingers together.
Martin Havlat smiles. "It's nice to finally meet you."
***
Jonny tries hard not to stare. Marty rolls up the sleeves of his Armani shirt and shakes Jonny's hand; Jonny glances at his own shirt and slacks and can't help but feel under-dressed as Marty leads him to a spacious row of cubicles. All his uncertainties about his appearance vanish, however, when he catches his first glimpse of his work station, and instead he focuses on trying not to gasp at the set-up: the expensive equipment, sweet-ass monitor and -- best of all -- spinny chairs. Awesome.
There are computers set up to the left and right of him as well, work stations untidy and disorganized but momentarily empty, and clutter everywhere. There is no bare space to be found on the walls, every inch covered with glossy posters, maps, diagrams and charts. Marty seems unconcerned about the mess, and Jonny decides that he will be too.
Marty perches on the edge of the desk and gestures for Jonny to sit in one of the chairs; he complies obediently, sinking gratefully into a thickly padded cushion. "So," Marty says. "You're Patty's replacement."
"Um," Jonny says brilliantly. "Yeah, I guess so."
Still smiling patiently, Marty forges on. "You come highly recommended. North Dakota, right?"
"Yeah."
"Cool," Marty nods. "The badger came from Wisconsin."
"Uh, okay." Jonny tries hard not to sound confused, and fails miserably. What did badgers have to do with anything? Or Wisconsin, for that matter? What had Jonny gotten himself into?
Jonny must look like the gears in his head are churning at warp speed, because Marty pauses and then sounds a little apologetic when he says, "He's one of the other hackers," while pointing at a tiny, closet-sized room in the corner.
Through the grimy glass window, Jonny thinks he can see several young guys, all wearing t-shirts in primary colors. One of them has teeth too bright, white and straight to be real, and another guy turns around to reveal a shirt that looks like it says:
C:/ DOS
C:/ DOS RUN
RUN / DOS / RUN
Wow. Suddenly, Jonny feels better about his own clothes and relaxes the tiniest bit.
Marty's calm voice snaps him back into reality. " ... languages?"
"Huh?" Jonny blinks. "Sorry, what was the question?"
"How are you with languages?" Marty repeats; it's either the second or seventh time. Jonny hopes it's the former. He also hopes Marty doesn't think he's retarded.
"Not bad," Jonny considers. "English, French. Oh, and enough Russian to get by. It's rusty, though."
Marty laughs, amused. "I meant programming languages."
"Oh, yeah, right. Of course," Jonny feels his ears going red, and for a moment, he wishes the ground would open up and swallow him into the depths of molten hot lava beneath the earth's crust.
Luckily, he's rescued from further humiliation when the main office door takes the opportunity to slam open: An angry, paint-covered man stomps through, bee-lining for Lang's office and bursting through without knocking. It's followed by a sudden outburst of I'M EIGHT MONTHS FROM RETIREMENT AND TOO FUCKING OLD FOR THIS SHIT! before the door shuts behind him, muffling his yelling.
Marty rolls his eyes, but his grin widens as the main door slams open a second time and loud voices filter into the room, new presences invading the hallway: an equally paint-splattered group, clad in all-black, trudging through the office. Jonny cranes his neck in their direction, his embarrassment from mere moments ago already evaporating into thin air as he listens to their bickering with morbid fascination.
"Kaner," one of the guys says, shaking his head. "If that wasn't training, you'd be dead."
Another guy, clothes covered with purple paint, grins. "Um, technically, he and Buff would both be dead."
A third guy, the one who looks like a 12-year-old kid, shakes his head, flinging red paint onto the walls and his companions. "Nuh-uh! I got the angle; I would've sniped him first, so Buff wouldn't even be standing there." That must be Kaner, Jonny thinks to himself. "Right, Buff?"
Buff shrugs and stretches, and Jonny is amazed -- the guy is huge. "Hope so, kid. Either way, Khabby's fuckin' pissed."
As if on cue, Lang emerges from his office, along with the other man -- Khabby, presumably -- still angry, and right on his heels. He looks over at the paint-splattered party and shakes his head, taking another puff from his cigar. "Do I even want to know?"
"No sir," they chorus, their squabbling seemingly sated, at least for the time being.
Lang exhales, and opens his mouth like he's going to say something, and then thinks better of it. He sighs instead, and motions toward where Marty and Jonny are sitting, taking in the whole scene. "Boys, this is Jonny Toews; he's taking over for Patty."
He pauses before addressing Jonny. "Toews, this is the field unit. Until we find you your own place, you'll be rooming with that one," he says, pointing at one of the guys in the group -- the one with the sheepish grin. "Okay? Okay. Now get back to work, all of you," he says, before disappearing back into his office, with Khabby still muttering behind him.
The members of the field unit nod their introductions and disperse, some migrating to the break room, others plunking down in the spinny chairs while ignoring the paint prints that they leave behind. That one steps forward and smiles affably, sticking a hand out for Jonny to shake. "Roommate, huh? Cool. Sup. Brent Seabrook. Seabs. Brent. Whatever."
There is a purple paint streak across his face. Jonny decides not to say anything. "Hi. Jonny."
***
Brent and Kaner (real name: Pat -- never Patrick -- Kane, as Jonny later learns) decide to take it upon themselves to personally familiarize Jonny with everyone in Special Ops. Or at least Brent does, dragging Jonny after him to hole up in the the break room, which doubles as the photocopying room, if the coffee machine wedged between the mini-fridge and fax machine is any indication. Kaner, meanwhile, busies himself by making endless photocopies of his own face, throwing in occasional commentary to Brent's descriptions.
Ticking names off his fingers, Brent runs through job descriptions ("Buff's the muscle; he breaks doors and lifts heavy shit. It's awesome!" and "Old man Sopes is ace. He pretty much hacked the Pentagon one time; it was so sweet. Too bad he's got a raging hard-on for his graphing calculator.") and personalities ("Marty's badass! He used to be one of us, and then he fucked up his shoulders and now he's got dead guys in 'em!" and "Wiz and Burish probably do math equations for fun." and "Sharpie's got a wicked shot and he's stealth as hell; he's a fuckin' ninja!").
He also doesn't hesitate to greet the nervous intern, who knocks tentatively at the door to get another cup of coffee for "Mr. Lang," with great fervor.
"This is Cam Barker!" Brent introduces to Jonny. "Him and Corey Crawford, they're the interns. They do intern shit, whatever that means. I don't know what they do."
"Don't fuck with Barker, he'll shit in your shoes!" Kaner announces passionately, making another copy of his face from yet another angle. "He's hardcore!"
Jonny can feel a headache starting at the back of his skull as Barker flushes with pleasure, no doubt pleased that Brent and Kaner even remember his name, and leaves to take the coffee back to Lang, but not before spilling half of it in the process. Brent resumes enthusing about the rest of the guys, while the green light continues to flash from the photocopier. Kaner must be on at least copy number thirty-five by now.
"Oh, and Duncs!" Brent gestures with his hands, leaning against the mini-fridge and knocking a container of Coffee-Mate off the top of it. He doesn't notice. "Duncan Keith!"
"Badass," Kaner says, loud enough to be heard over the continual hum of the photocopier. "So badass."
"Really?" Jonny humors them. The polite smile that he's been wearing for the last twenty minutes is beginning to feel tight at the corners of his mouth.
"Fuckin' badass," Brent agrees ardently. "Guy drives the getaway van!"
Jonny glances at his watch and, with great effort, uses his most reasonable voice to excuse himself -- it's his first day, he has a lot of work to do, thanks but I really should be getting back; learn the ropes and all, you know how it is.
His hand's on the knob, ready to push his way back into sweet, sweet freedom, when Kaner grabs him by the wrist. "You gotta try the photocopier first, man," he says seriously.
Licking his lips nervously, Jonny narrows his eyes. Are you for real? he wants to say.
"No, no man. You gotta," Kaner reiterates, eyes wide as saucers. Behind him, Brent is nodding in encouragement. "It's good for team-building. Do it. It's awesome. Just, you know, don't open your eyes for it. It hurts like a bitch if you do. Trust me."
***
Jonny falls into the spinny chair at his workstation, the photocopy of his face slightly crumpled in his left hand. Marty catches a glimpse and laughs. "Guess you met Kaner and Seabs?"
"Uh," Jonny glances down at the scrunched up paper in his hand. "Yeah."
"Have a good time?"
"They are ... " Retarded, Jonny wants to say. " ... Nice," he hedges instead.
Marty laughs again and pats him on the shoulder, and then spends the next two hours outlining their objectives, projects and responsibilities. Jonny's headache recedes and a faint trickle of excitement -- of being a part of something, something important -- begins to settle in the pit of his stomach. For the first time all day, the uneasiness subsides, and Jonny can relax enough to focus on the work ahead of him.
As his fingers start flying across the keyboard, the guy in the work station beside him turns to him and grins. He is most definitely wearing a RUN / DOS / RUN shirt. On Jonny's other side, someone else swivels into his line of vision. His shirt says There is no place like 127.0.0.1. Jonny searches his memory, which is overflowing with names, objectives, useless information. He's pretty confident that RUN / DOS / RUN is old man Sopes, and the second guy -- square jaw, still has all his teeth -- must be Adam Burish.
Jonny gets his confirmation a moment later, as Burish hoots triumphantly, pumping both fists in the air. "Let it be known that the Badger just stealth motherfucked his way into the Avs' main server. I am the motherfucking man!"
Jonny can't help but laugh. Burish turns and offers Jonny a fist-pound that he accepts, surprised at the gesture, but also a little pleased.
***
Brent Seabrook took one look around Chicago and decided he wanted to live there forever, so the summer after his rookie year, he bought some graph paper from Target and drew up the floorplans for his dream house. Jonny knows this because Brent spends the entire drive home telling Jonny his life story, as Jonny grips his knees and tries to quell the exasperation flaring back up, like a sinus infection that won't go away.
When they pull up, it becomes painfully evident that Brent Seabrook's idea of a dream house is kind of misguided, bordering on fucked up, starting from the very front. There are seven locks on the front door, a laser alarm system with a twenty-letter security password ("It's actually B-R-E-N-T-A-W-E-S-O-M-E-S-E-A-B-R-O-O-K, which is, like, genius"), and an extremely old mastiff who introduces himself to Jonny with a docile lick of his ankles.
"He didn't have a name until Kaner came over last week," Brent explains. "Now he won't answer to anything but 'Mister Fluffy.'" Jonny is appalled, and hopes it doesn't show on his face, but Brent just shrugs and motions for Jonny to follow him.
The rest of the house is duly presented: The kitchen is spotless and strangely unused, judging from the amount of dust that comes off the counters when Jonny brushes against them. The living room seems to serve the sole purpose of housing shin-high heaps of of game consoles, wires, controllers, and DVD boxes. There's an unfinished tree house built in the backyard, and none of the three bathrooms have soap in them.
Jonny is a little bit traumatized by the den, which has an actual trophy wall, but the only thing mounted on it is a crusty brown turtle shell. Brent catches Jonny's dumbfounded expression and hurriedly waves his hands in a claim of innocence. He explains, "I found it in the backyard one day! It's really cool, I mean, I don't kill household pets or anything like that." They both let out nervous laughs.
When they finally get to the guest bedroom, Jonny is prepared for the worst. But when Brent pushes open the door, the only thing that greets them is nondescript gray carpet and unassuming striped wallpaper. Nothing flashy, nothing out of the ordinary. Jonny sighs, somewhat placated, and starts hauling in his suitcase and duffel bag.
He's in the middle of unpacking when he hears rustling from behind, followed by the sound of tape ripping. He turns around to catch Brent attaching the now-extremely wrinkled photocopy of Jonny's face to the door.
After a few moments of biting back choice expletives, Jonny finally chokes out, "Is that really necessary?"
Brent says brightly, "It's better than a name tag, don't you think? You almost forgot it on your desk when we left."
Jonny's annoyance has started to accessorize: sledgehammer, bitch boots. "No, I mean -- why did I have to photocopy my face in the first place?"
Brent is still grinning. "We told you, it's just something we do as part of the team."
Jonny finds that he's finally used up all of his restraint, which has been stretched thin for so long, starting with the first letter, and ending here, now, with a lousy piece of paper stuck to his door. Like a balloon slowly inflating past its threshold, bulging dangerously with everything inside, and Jonny can almost feel the pinprick bursting everything wide open.
He explodes. "Do you know how stupid that sounds? What the fuck does this have to do with being part of a team? And what about the rest of this bullshit? Why am I living here with you? Why did you let some idiot kid name your dog Mister Fluffy? Seriously, what's wrong with you?"
Jonny stops to catch his breath, trying to ignore the anger and confusion pounding in his chest, trying to pull himself back together.
He looks away from Brent's face, which has collapsed into dismay, so it comes as a surprise when Brent finally speaks, and his voice comes out steady and fierce -- almost defiant. "We're not playing games. You think we're dumb and fucked up, well, maybe we are. But we take this shit seriously too."
Jonny opens his mouth to reply, but Brent cuts him off.
"It's time for dinner." And with that, he turns and disappears down the hall.
***
Dinner, as it turns out, is a plate of burnt toast, dried-out carrot sticks, and a giant bottle of orange Gatorade. The crunch-crunch-crunch of their ingestion makes it difficult for Jonny to apologize, but he remembers Lang's quick but firm handshake, the brief moments of solace he'd felt while occupied with work, and the way Marty had showered Jonny liberally with praise all afternoon, and decides to try his best.
He swallows with some difficulty, but manages, he hopes, a convincing grin. "So, uh. Ever thought about hiring a cook?"
Jonny didn't think it was possible, but Brent's face, stony since their confrontation, crumples. "My old roommate, Vandy -- before he -- got reassigned -- " He looks away.
Unsure of what to say, Jonny stuffs a piece of toast in his mouth and tries not to chew too loudly.
"Anyway, I'm not too good around the kitchen, as you can tell," Brent concludes ruefully.
Jonny is starting to wonder if maybe Lang sent him to live here not to be taken care of, but to make sure Brent doesn't die of malnutrition. Strangely enough, he finds that he can live with this arrangement.
He clears his throat. "I can make pasta. And some other dishes. I know it's not much, but I wouldn't mind -- I mean, if you'll let me." It's not even close to Sorry, sorry I was an asshole, but Jonny hopes it'll be enough, for now, at least.
Brent stares, expression unreadable, and Jonny can feel himself starting to flush under the scrutiny, until he finally hears, "Okay. Okay, yeah, that'd be cool," and lets out a breath he's been holding for far too long.
***
At 9:03 a.m. the next day, Jonny thinks he's broken the security system.
"What the fucking fuck!" he screams, as his dual monitor desktop spasms with lines of mangled code.
Sopel peers around the edge of his cubicle and blinks slowly. "What's up, kid?"
"THIS!" Jonny gestures forcefully at the script that fills both screens.
Jonny can't comprehend the pleased expression that dawns on the other man's face. "Oh!" Sopel exclaims. "D'you like it?"
"Um. What ... is it, exactly?" Jonny asks cautiously, mentally clutching at the relief of knowing that whatever it was, it wasn't his fault.
"It's my portion of the security system." Sopel is absolutely beaming at this point. "Malbolge."
Jonny tries and fails spectacularly at keeping the shock out of his voice. "You -- you used an esoteric programming language for the security system? How did -- I don't -- that's not even possible, is it?"
Sopel looks unconcerned. "Pfft. That's nothing."
Oh right, Jonny remembers, he hacked into the Pentagon. For fun. He bravely resists the urge to plant his face onto his ergonomic keyboard. Suddenly the field guys seem like normal, functioning, rational human beings. "So, um, the whole thing is written in Malbolge?"
Burish pipes up from the cubicle behind Jonny's. "Course not; what d'you take us for, newbs?"
Jonny turns to face Burish, who raises his right hand solemnly. "I coded my part in SPL."
When Jonny doesn't immediately respond, Burish grins impishly. "That's Shakespeare, since I graduated from college and everything." He looks excessively proud of his accomplishment. Jonny vaguely recalls playing against UW his first college season; Burish was their brash, wild-eyed captain who was extremely loud and leaned in incredibly close during faceoffs, as if trying to physically force Jonny off-balance.
"Wait," he protests. "Who the fuck combines Shakespeare with Malbolge?"
Burish just tilts his head, like he finds Jonny's criticism amusing, and says, "Forsooth, dude, thou dost not understand the badger's art." He poses theatrically for effect, before breaking from character. "And it's not just Sopes and me, either; Wiz did an entire section in Piet -- "
" -- That's the one with the colored bitmaps," Sopel chips in helpfully.
Burish lowers his voice conspiratorially. "I think he was on acid the weekend he started coding it."
Jonny wants to die a little. "But, I mean, there's gotta be a general script underpinning all of this, right? Something a little more, ah, accessible? What does Marty use?"
The grins on Sopel and Burish's faces are equally gleeful. Sopel turns back to his computer and types in a command. "See for yourself, young grasshopper."
Jonny cranes his neck to see the screen. The script registers:
HAI
CAN HAS STDIO?
I HAS A VAR
GIMMEH VAR
VISIBLE "You said " N VAR N " !!"
KTHXBYE
Jonny's legs buckle under the weight of this new revelation, and he falls out of his chair. He stays on the floor for a long time, studiously ignoring the twin cackling of Sopel and Burish, and contemplates remaining there for the next few hours. Or maybe eternity.
***
To Jonny's eternal gratitude, the universe stays out of his grill for the rest of the day, and the rest of his first week is mercifully uneventful as well, until Kaner gets his face stuck inside Khabby's goalie mask ("But it would've made such an awesome photocopy!") and Khabby threatens to have Kaner castrated.
Still, between these minor incidences of lunacy, Jonny's life manages to settle into a predictable, though doubtlessly bizarre routine. He makes breakfast every day, a traditional meat-and-eggs combination for himself, while Brent has pledged unwavering loyalty to Pop Tarts and gooey peanut butter-and-jelly concoctions. They're on their third toaster set, after Brent managed to get a bagel permanently stuck in the first one, and Jonny discovered the corpse of the second one while emptying the dishwasher one evening, still a bit sudsy and useless forevermore.
The hockey part of his life is easier to grapple with. When training starts, Jonny finds that he isn't nervous at all, not after dealing with the stress of Special Ops. The only time he feels butterflies is when he is first introduced to Patty Lalime, but even that dissipates when the other man smiles and clasps his shoulder warmly in greeting. Jonny grins, relieved, and soon they are chatting away in French like old friends. Morning practice and game nights soon become the only times when the world is aligned on its rightful axis, when Jonny's skin feels like his own, when he breathes quick and easy.
It hasn't been difficult to balance hockey with his other training, either. Mostly, Jonny cocoons himself inside his cubicle, works on cases, and tries to remember the interns' names. His attempts at avoiding Brent and Kaner's gossip sessions in the break room become increasingly half-hearted, and he genuinely finds himself having fun with the other techies, excecuting elaborate pranks on Lang's inbox and occasionally rewiring the intercom with Wiz's terrible techno music in order to cut through the afternoon stupor.
The first two months pass by in a flurry: pastry wrappers in the morning, stick tape in the locker room, and Post-It notes pressed onto Jonny's desk, delineating the day's tasks. Jonny scores goals, talks to the press, hacks the shit out of the NHL database, and wonders absently when something more is going to happen. Not that Jonny isn't satisfied with finally playing in the NHL and saving the world (or whatever they're doing) on the side, but given the steady build-up of his expectations ever since he found out what it really meant to be a part of the Blackhawks organization, it's getting to the point where Jonny can't help but wonder if maybe it really is a hoax, after all.
Then, one Tuesday in November, as Jonny spins idly in his computer chair and nurses an itch of self-pity, the P.A. system crackles to life, and it's not "Sandstorm" that blares from the speakers, but Lang's voice, announcing solemnly: Everybody, it's time.
All of a sudden, Jonny is on the move, gathering his mission materials, just as he's been taught by all the training manuals Marty tossed his way.
***
It's not until they hit the Indiana border that Jonny finds out what their mission objective actually is. He's been doing a lot of data gathering lately, mostly spreadsheets and shit, but the hackers aren't exactly kept in the loop as far as actual missions go. When they tell him, Jonny's life flashes before his eyes. ("You should take the first mission," Sopel had suggested coyly two weeks earlier. "I'm too old, Adam and Wiz are too hyper, and Marty trusts you a lot." Jonny had shrugged his assent, and turned his attention back to building an algorithm for beating Minesweeper on expert level.)
"So let me get this straight," he says, for the hundredth time. The van -- an honest to god unmarked white van, into which six full-grown hockey players and one man-boy are crammed -- chugs merrily along I-94, unaware of its final destination, or the magnitude of chaos its occupants are bent on unleashing once they get there. Jonny never thought he'd feel envious of an automobile.
He sighs, and says for the hundred-and-first time, "So let me get this straight. We're going to Detroit -- "
"Mm-hmm," Brent nods good naturedly, oblivious to the way Jonny has been flexing his hands into fists for the past ten minutes.
" -- Because Rick Nash is smuggling illegal substances -- "
Kaner flicks a half-eaten gummy bear at Khabby's head. "Yep."
" -- And he's storing them in Al the Octopus." Jonny's voice rises dangerously. "The fucking inflatable mascot."
Sharpie shrugs from the passenger seat. "Stranger things have happened. It's the Central Division, man, teams are desperate and shit is fucked up. Anyway, we gotta get there before the Blue Jackets do, and the game's tomorrow night."
"Okay, but why can't we, you know, call the cops?" Jonny demands to know.
Sharpie shakes his head. "Would they believe us? I mean, you don't even believe us."
He has a point. "Okay, fine," Jonny says. "But can someone at least explain to me why Kaner is dressed like that?"
The kid is clad head to toe in black: turtleneck, sweatpants, gloves, toque, and even his sneakers have been filled in with black marker. Brent and Buff suddenly develop identical fixations on the scenery outside, and Khabby lets out a snort of indignation from the backseat.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, at least take off the ski mask," Sharpie begs. "You'll get us all thrown in jail."
"Whatever," Kaner retorts. "Don't be hating 'cuz I'm fly."
The van erupts in laughter, and Jonny joins in, feeling a little less tense -- if not quite reassured -- about the state of things.
***
The Joe is almost as old as Khabby, and twice as glum. Duncan drops them off half a mile from the arena, and they pick their way along the riverwalk to their planned site of entry.
Jonny grins when they get to the shipment garage and he sees the lone electronic lock separating the field unit from their scheduled mayhem; this is almost as fun as hockey, he thinks, cracking his knuckles and getting to work.
Twenty-six seconds later, he sits back on his heels and sighs contentedly. With an antiquated system like Detroit's, Z-E-T-T-E-R-B-E-R-G-R-U-L-E-S-C-R-O-S-B-Y-D-R-O-O-L-S would make a more secure passcode than their current setting.
The others don't seem to know that, though, and they stare at Jonny like he's just cured cancer.
"Whoa," Brent breathes.
"Double whoa," Kaner adds eloquently.
"Oh my god," Jonny says. "It really wasn't -- "
The rest of his sentence is engulfed, along with his whole head, by a pair of arms that smell like butter. From somewhere far away, Jonny can hear Buff's voice say solemnly, "You're our favorite."
And then he's released, and the field team vanishes into the arena.
Jonny shakes his head; since his services are no longer needed, he starts to make his way back to the van. He's no less than fifty feet away from the arranged location, however, when he hears the distinct chords of an old female empowerment anthem, the kind his mother used to put on repeat when his dad had to work late.
God bless Mother Nature, she's a single woman too
She took off to heaven and she did what she had to do
She taught every angel to rearrange the sky
So that each and every woman could find her perfect guy
It's Raining Men! Hallelujah!
It's Raining Men! Amen!
To make things worse, someone is singing along in a shaky falsetto that cracks with every other syllable. As Jonny inches toward the source, he realizes with unequivocal horror that it could only be one person.
Sure enough, as he rounds the last corner, he is greeted by the sight of Duncan Keith, arm dangling out the open window, feet propped up on the dashboard, eyes closed, tossing his head from side to side as he belts his lungs out.
Jonny is too stunned to do more than stand in the middle of the street with a stupefied expression on his face, even though his mind silently contemplates two dozen different ways of fleeing the scene. Maybe he could join the circus, brush up on his knife-throwing skills; maybe he could walk to Alaska like that one dude, except without the whole dying in the snow part; maybe Shane Doan needs another farmhand for his Christian horse ranch. But before Jonny can take that first step to freedom, Duncan catches sight of him and abruptly shuts off the music.
They both stare warily. Duncan runs a hand through his hair. Jonny scratches the back of his neck. Finally, Jonny's grotesque curiosity gets the better of him; he makes his way around to the passenger seat and hops in.
He thinks he could have some fun with this, especially considering the way Duncan is studiously avoiding looking at him or even breathing. So Jonny raises his eyebrows and puts on his best I'm-silently-judging-you-right-now voice. "Are you serious?"
Duncan twitches and snaps back resentfully, "You try doing this job for a living and see how well you deal!"
For the second time that day, Jonny thinks maybe someone has a point. "I hope you know that this is so fucked up," he says, staring out the window.
"What is?" Duncan leans forward to fiddle with the archaic-looking radio dials, and through the cranky, old speakers, static suddenly crackles to life.
"This." Jonny indicates to, well, everything. "This shit can't be normal."
Duncan flicks the radio tuner to AM and scrolls through stations rapidly, still avoiding Jonny's inquisitive gaze. "Someone's gotta do it, man."
Jonny tries his hardest not to do his best impression of a petulant twelve-year-old. "It's stupid."
Finally, Duncan looks over at him, and then slowly says, "I have three words for you." He draws out the next syllables. "Rick. Tocchet."
"That's two words!"
"Oh, okay." Duncan scratches the back of his neck, considering. "Uh. Rick Tocchet ... Gretzky?" he tries again.
Jonny just stares at him blankly.
Duncan glances at him sideways. "Who do you think busted the Coyotes gambling ring last season, man? You don't even want to know how long it took us to figure that shit out," he explains patiently, as if Jonny were some dumb kid, like Kaner. "And all the undercover missions, and the fuckin' disguises ... "
Duncan shudders, reliving some horrible memory that Jonny definitely is not going to ask about. Finally, he shakes his head. "Anyway, the point is, what we do is important, okay?"
Jonny's still gawking at him, opening and closing his mouth silently like a fish out of water, so Duncan takes it as his cue to barrel on. "It's not that bad, kid. You just gotta remember to split your attention between this shit and hockey. Not like last year -- we worked too hard at busting the gambling ring, and we, um. Well. We forgot to make the playoffs."
Heaving a sigh, Jonny guess that deep down, way deep down, he maybe even gets it. Maybe. He opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by Buff's voice emitting from the van's shitty speakers. Hey, Big Mama? You there?
"Big Mama?" Jonny whispers to Duncan, quirking an eyebrow.
The reply he gets is a quick shoulder shrug. "The van," Duncan whispers back, unconcerned. He stretches and punches in a series of numbers into the prehistoric head unit, which proves to be much more elaborate than at first glance. Jonny guesses that the whole thing has been set up to allow for direct contact with the field team, and finds himself faintly impressed by the mishmash of old and new technology.
Suddenly, Duncan looks a little embarrassed. The tips of his ears turn pink, and after a few moments, he finally rolls his eyes and mumbles, "Talk dirty to me. Uh. Over."
Jonny almost chokes in surprise as a crackly Kaner-squawk of victory trickles through the speakers: "Sharpie, you said there was no way in hell I could get him to say it! You owe me five bucks!"
Beneath Sharpie's muffled grumbling (" -- probably cheated -- "), Khabby's voice filters through, clearly irritated. "Why must I carry a Batman knapsack? WHY?"
"Step off, okay?" Even through the choppy reception, Kaner sounds indignant. "I was making photocopies, and Langer came in and was all, 'Bring a bag, Kaner,' and I was like, 'What kind of bag? My hockey bag? My golf bag?' and he was like, 'Bring a bag that's the right size for what you need' and I was all, 'But how do I know?' and he was like, 'Just ... bring a bag and stop wasting the office supplies' and then he left, and I totally had this one kicking around so it's the one we gots to use. It's from, like, when I was in the fift -- I mean, first grade. It's long-lasting, guys."
Khabby snorts. Jonny gets a mental image of the goalie rolling his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose, probably wishing for a stiff drink, and stifles his amusement. "Fine, fine, I don't care. I'm too old for this shit."
And on and on it goes, accompanied by occasional clattering, presumably a symptom of the field team making its way (stealthily, Jonny hopes) through the passageways of the arena.
Finally, Brent's voice crackles over the radio. "Sup, Duncs. It's all good for now -- we found where they're stashing Al, and shit. And, uh. We'll let you know when we grab the goods, 'cuz we'll be back your way. Seabs-awesome, out."
Staticky white noise filters through the van's tinny speakers once more, and Jonny sits up straighter, shaking his head in disbelief. Duncan notices and shrugs sympathetically. "Can't choose your teammates," he says.
Jonny takes a moment to mull this over. Technically, everything Duncan has said is true, and things could probably be much worse. If Jonny's being honest with himself, there's a small part of him that has already accepted the company of this motley crew, and as for the rest of him, well, he supposes it'll get better with time.
He finally says, as a truce, "So who used to be me? I mean, who used to come and sit in the van?"
"Oh, uh." Duncan considers the question while fiddling with the radio dials. "Patty, mostly, before he gave this up to go take care of his kids; there was some kind of clause in his contract, I dunno. Sometimes Vandy, before was reassigned. Marty came with us a few times after he transferred from the field unit to tech services. He used to show me pictures of cats with words on them. They were funny."
Jonny processes this information, and considers telling Duncan about LOLcode, but decides not to after all.
***
It's not long before Buff, Khabby, and Sharpie arrive, clambering noisily through the back doors of the van and interrupting Jonny's intense staring contest with the pigeons outside his window. Buff is panting and grinning, Khabby looks less unimpressed with the world than usual, and Sharpie has the aforementioned Batman schoolbag slung over his shoulder.
"Dude," Sharpie says, grinning so hard it looks like his face might split wide open. "We're fucking awesome."
Jonny nods and grins back before asking, "Where are Kaner and Seabs?" It's not like he's concerned or anything; just curious, maybe.
Khabby scowls, glaring out the window almost as if he could will them to appear inside the van at any moment now. "We split up," he says shortly. "They should be back soon." And then, under his breath, "Fuck this, I'm too old to baby-sit."
"They still have the audio hook-up," Buff gasps helpfully, face still flushed from exertion. Idly, Jonny wonders why they can't be this straightforward all the time, and watches as Duncan leans forward in his seat and presses down on the intercom button.
"Kaner, Seabs, where are you? We gotta get out of here!"
"A little busy right now, Duncs," Kaner's voice huffs breathlessly over the speakers.
There's a long pause in between coherent words, filled with snippets of sounds -- swearing, mostly, and some stomping, and maybe the sound of solid objects slamming against one another. Jonny swallows nervously. Then, Brent's voice crackles through the speakers, yelling, "Fuck this shit!" followed by muffled thumping, a loud crash, and then white noise once more.
Duncan frantically twists the radio dials, scanning the airwaves for the faintest sliver of communication, but to no avail. Jonny tries hard not to fidget as everybody else in the van exchanges uncomfortable glances. A minute passes, then two. Then five, and then five more. Still no sign of Brent or Kaner. The silence in the van thickens into twitchy concern. Jonny tries to recall what the training manuals said if a teammate ever got stuck inside Joe Louis Arena (seriously, what the fuck!); he scans his mental index, desperately trying to grasp something, anything.
Nothing. He tries not to assume the worst.
Finally, Duncan is the one who breaks the silence. "Can't deal," he mutters under his breath, clenching and unclenching his hands around the steering wheel. He clears his throat and turns around to address everyone else. "Any ideas?"
Another round of worried silence, before finally, Khabby stretches, joints cracking, and says, "Guess we're going back in for them."
Just then, there's a sudden crashing sound on the top of the van, which causes everyone inside to jump out of their skins. It definitely sounds like it could be two humanoid bodies landing ungracefully from a decent height. The entire van shakes. Unprepared for the sudden, jarring movement, Jonny grabs on to the dashboard for dear life.
For the second time that afternoon, the back doors of the van explode open. This time, Brent and Kaner come tumbling in, knocking over both Sharpie and a delighted Buff in the process, before slamming the doors behind them, both shouting a variation of FUCKING DRIVE! and GO GO GO GO GO!
Duncan doesn't need to be told twice. He shifts gears and slams down on the pedal, screeching around corners, dodging vehicles in congested lanes and skillfully evading traffic cops until they're safely cruising along the highway again.
By this time, Kaner has already peeled off his black gloves and black toque, and is halfway through an elaborate retelling of his and Brent's daring escape from the dastardly Jared Boll. Buff, fascinated, hangs on to Kaner's every word, while Sharpie checks to make sure they've still got all their gear. Behind him, Khabby remains slouched in his seat, staring out the window and periodically muttering something that sounds suspiciously like too old for this shit.
Jonny gives it another few minutes, until he's sure that there will be no risk of whiplash from Duncan's driving, before craning his head around to seek out Brent. "Where the fuck were you guys?" he demands, peering suspiciously, still just curious, or maybe a little bit concerned as well.
Brent grins lopsidedly at him. "Don't look at me, man, it's not my fault Kaner decided to play Batman or some shit like that."
***
The van finally shudders to a standstill when Duncan parks crookedly in the players' lot, and Khabby wordlessly leads the field unit down to headquarters, where everybody else is just coming back from an off-ice workout session. He snatches the backpack from Sharpie ("You're welcome," Sharpie mutters under his breath), and throws it at Langer, who attempts to juggle the Batman bag and his damp towel for several seconds before resigning himself to having wet hair for the time being and calling an impromptu meeting to debrief.
"Are the goods in here?" Langer asks, unzipping the knapsack and warping Batman's face in the process.
There are collective nods from the field team. Everybody else watches in anticipation.
Langer nods solemnly. "Good," he says, and then reaches for his hockey gloves, slipping them on before reaching into the bag and rooting around. Jonny wonders if that's even necessary -- they seem to act as more of a hindrance than anything else.
Kaner clears his throat, "It wasn't easy, guys. Jared Boll saw us, man. He came after us, that crazy motherfucker! But Seabs took him down!" He makes a fist and smacks it into his other palm, to demonstrate.
Ducking his head a little, Brent grins. "Shit, that's nothing; you should have seen Jonny here with the security code." Jonny snaps to attention at the mention of his name, and blinks in Brent's direction as he continues. "He was awesome! He's a genius!"
Latching onto this, Kaner nods with enthusiasm, and suddenly everybody is talking over each other, offering their approval:
"It's true! He was so stealth ... "
" ... magic ... "
" ... more normal than most of the psychos I have to drive around ... "
" ... reliable enough to not give me a fucking stroke ... "
" ... he's our favorite!" Buff crows happily, throwing an arm around Jonny's shoulders, and suddenly everybody's crowding around them, slapping his back and trying to give him noogies and grinning wide, so wide, at him.
Their excitement is instantly stalled, however, by the next words out of Lang's mouth, uttered while pulling fistful of pills out of the deflated likeness of Al the Octopus. "These are ... legal. Boys, this is an inflatable octopus full of Nyquil and laxatives."
Khabby looks like he's ready to spear someone in the groin. "Are you serious? We drove to Michigan to pull off a drug bust, and it was cough medicine the whole time?"
"And laxatives!" Kaner pipes up helpfully. Khabby glowers witheringly in his direction; Jonny cringes on his behalf and can't decide if Kaner is incredibly stupid, or kind of oddly brave.
"You know," Lang says slowly, deflecting Khabby's fury. "This could be big, boys. Huge. We could have stopped something dastardly. What if Rick Nash was going to use the Nyquil and the laxatives on the Red Wings?" His monologue quickens with his sudden inspiration. "Who knows what lengths he could have gone to in order to get a playoff spot? There would have been puke and shit everywhere. Or worse, who knows what the greater plan is? Maybe this is part of something huge."
There is a collective murmur that goes around the room, as everyone considers this possibility. Finally, Sopel speaks up from the back of the crowd. "So," he drawls. "The day is saved?"
"Um, I guess it is?" Duncan says, looking and sounding just as confused as Jonny feels.
Lang nods vigorously, like he's trying to convince everybody -- including himself -- that this is the rational explanation. "Okay, meeting dismissed, I guess. You did a great job on this one, boys. Everybody, great job. And, uh, there's no game tomorrow, so ... happy hour?"
A collective cheer goes up in the locker room in anticipation for getting shit-faced in the wake of their accomplishment. An entire month had been spent working up to the bust, even if it did turn out to be over-the-counter shit, probably from fuckin' Walgreens. Still, Jonny thinks, it could be so much fucking worse -- at least they all made it out alive.
On his way out of the locker room, someone grabs Jonny by the arm. It's Wiz. Behind him are the other hackers, all of them smiling appraisingly at him.
"Hey kid," Wiz says. "So you were real clutch with the security code, huh? Way to go, man."
"Heard it was almost as good as your goal against Colorado," Burish confides, nodding in approval.
"Fuck, you're one of us for real," Sopel adds, before breaking into a smile and throwing a balled up t-shirt at Jonny. "Wear it to happy hour, okay?" and then shuffles out of the room with everyone else, before Jonny can even say thanks or even seriously, what the fuck?
Consequently, he's alone when he unfolds the shirt, and silently mouths the slogan painted in capital letters across the front:
OCT 31 = DEC 25
He grins. None of this has been easy for him, especially the mission itself, but despite the neverending adjustment period, the discomfort of essentially living a double life, and the vast collection of misgivings minnowing inside his head -- despite all of that, these last few months haven't been as terrible as Jonny once feared. In fact, between this dorky t-shirt and the round of congratulations he'd received during the meeting, Jonny thinks maybe he can get used to this. Whatever this turns out to be.
He pulls the shirt over his head. It's a size too large. Jonny finds that he doesn't mind.
***
continued here.