B is for Betrayal
E/N: A bit out of sync with the rest, but this tells where some of the men still out there go.
Outside, a cold deluge of rain swirled by wind soaked everything and everybody. A fat man hurried by, trying to use a limp and soggy newspaper to shield his bald head. A polezi stood on the corner, her plastic covered garrison cap was useless and allowed her face and short hair to get soaked. Her bright yellow vest almost shone against the grayness of the weather and cobblestones. Cars splashed through the streets, the whine of their small engines fading into the distance and sounds of falling water.
It was cold, rainy, and unseasonably dreary, the kind of unseasonably dreary that you can only find in fiction or black and white movies where the dame is always trouble. Only this time, those cheesy movies had gotten it right. The dame, or dames in this case, were trouble, and both men knew they had trouble in spades and with a capital 'T'.
Sheltered inside a warm coffee house of rich wood and glass, two men in damp overcoats sipped at their Spanish espressos as they sat next to a large window. They wore fedoras.
The younger man's headwear was stiff and straight, much like its owner's posture. The brim was pulled low over the eyes and the plain black fedora looked relatively new, almost looking as if it had been liberated from its packing plastic just that day.
The other man's brown fedora sported a small stripe around the base of the peak and was battered and stained from years of sun, sweat, and fiddling. At the moment, it had been pushed back a little and it looked as relaxed and worn as its owner.
The hiss of an espresso machine punctuated the murmur and bustle of the cafe.
The older man looked out the window. "The rain in Spain..."
"...falls mainly on the plain." said the younger man.
They looked at each other.
"Fingers," said the younger man.
"What, Fireball?"
"What now?"
"Whaddaya mean, what now?"
"I mean, we've lost Vala and the disk. We've lost communication with HQ and...and..." Fireball looked down at his teaspoon and fiddled with it.
"And it stinks. It stinks like the city morgue on a hot summer day after an Italian familia dinner and the air conditioner is out."
"Yeah. What do we do?"
Fingers sipped his espresso and put down the small demitasse with a tiny clink. "Whaddaya think we should do?"
"Ah, er. I would think the only thing left is to return to HQ and--" he looked out the window, "--and." He broke down, leaning against the window. "Moey! I'm too young to be on a calendar!" Despair overcame him. The same dark, dank despair felt only by those on Death Row, or having realized they missed the Big Game.
"Got news for you." Fingers kicked him under the table. "They like 'em young. Maybe they'll cut ya some slack. You're lucky."
"Lucky? Me? How?"
"Well, I figger they're gonna fit me for some ce-ment speedos."
This only caused the younger man to slump even more against the window as he murmured unintelligibly. They sat that way for a while before the old man spoke again. By this time, Fireball had started to rock slowly in his seat.
"Look, kid, we don't have to go back."
Fireball stared at Fingers, his eyes empty of understanding. "We don't have to...?"
They were interrupted as a waiter came to pick up their empty cups. Fingers motioned for a couple more and they were delivered with a suspicious glance from the man in the apron. "I don't like that waiter," said Fingers as he leaned over. "Look, Fireball, we don't have to go back."
Shock slapped Fireball like cold December pond water. "But, Fingers, the Code...never--"
"--leave the mission. I know. I've sat in that chair right there and quoted the same thing too many times. And each time I've suffered for it. Each time I regretted it. I regretted it like that Grand Canyon mule regrets ever being saddled with four hundred pound Aunt Millie from Nebraska. You never can get rid of the weight of failing the mission. They brand ya with it. It's on ya like cheap wine on a bum, like a cheap suit on a fat man, like flies on a bad Roquefort.
"But, the others. What about the others?"
"Leave 'em. We're useless to 'em."
"No, we're not! They need us!"
"'ball," Fingers said. "If we go back to HQ, we'd be as useless as Louie Two-Fingers at a bowling tournament. We'd just be walkin' inta a den of photographers. It'd be a massacre."
"But the cause, the rebellion! What--"
"That ship is sunk like a tanker full of pumpkin pies. I say it's time fer these rats to find a life raft."
"You can't be serious, old man!"
Out of the corner of his eye, Fingers saw the waiter on the phone. "I'm as serious as a Baptist with a Bible in his hand and hellfire in his belly."
"What can we do?" Fireball muttered. "What can we do?"
"I'm tellin' ya. We've got to leave them behind like Lance left Ullrich. Like Lance dusted Vinokourov. This is our mountain stage. This is our Alps." The old man stood, grunting at the creeks in his knees. He buttoned up the overcoat and tied it shut with a decisive pull. "I don't know where you're going, kid, but youse welcome to ride along."
Fireball slumped back in the chair. "I-I can't, Fingers. I can't."
"Thought so. Always the dreamer, weren't ya?" He picked up his small briefcase containing all of the belongings he could carry, everything that mattered to him. Fingers pulled his hat low on his head. "So, where are you going?"
"I think, I'll head back to HQ." Fireball nodded to himself. "Yeah. Pick up the pieces. They'll need some help. First I'll stop in Paris, maybe see if I can track Vala." With an eager face he looked up. "You? Where are you going to end up?"
"End up? I'm not sure my time's over just yet." The old man looked down at the youngster. "I've always wanted to see California. Y'know, visit Hollywood, see Disneyland, walk across the Golden Gate." He smiled.
"Sounds great, Fingers. You say hi to Rita Hayward for me when you see her, will ya?"
"Sure, kid. Sure." He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it to Fireball. "Here, my lucky charm, figger you gonna need it more than me." He motioned to an expensive sedan coming down the street, dark figures huddled behind smoked glass. "See ya 'round."
Fingers strode to the door, pulled up his collar, turned away from the approaching car, and disappeared into the Spanish rain.
Fireball gathered his things quickly and slipped out of the back door of the cafe into the storm. As he walked towards the train station, he rubbed his thumb over the rare, gold 1787 Galleon Fingers had given him.
by MrFlyingFingers
Outside, a cold deluge of rain swirled by wind soaked everything and everybody. A fat man hurried by, trying to use a limp and soggy newspaper to shield his bald head. A polezi stood on the corner, her plastic covered garrison cap was useless and allowed her face and short hair to get soaked. Her bright yellow vest almost shone against the grayness of the weather and cobblestones. Cars splashed through the streets, the whine of their small engines fading into the distance and sounds of falling water.
It was cold, rainy, and unseasonably dreary, the kind of unseasonably dreary that you can only find in fiction or black and white movies where the dame is always trouble. Only this time, those cheesy movies had gotten it right. The dame, or dames in this case, were trouble, and both men knew they had trouble in spades and with a capital 'T'.
Sheltered inside a warm coffee house of rich wood and glass, two men in damp overcoats sipped at their Spanish espressos as they sat next to a large window. They wore fedoras.
The younger man's headwear was stiff and straight, much like its owner's posture. The brim was pulled low over the eyes and the plain black fedora looked relatively new, almost looking as if it had been liberated from its packing plastic just that day.
The other man's brown fedora sported a small stripe around the base of the peak and was battered and stained from years of sun, sweat, and fiddling. At the moment, it had been pushed back a little and it looked as relaxed and worn as its owner.
The hiss of an espresso machine punctuated the murmur and bustle of the cafe.
The older man looked out the window. "The rain in Spain..."
"...falls mainly on the plain." said the younger man.
They looked at each other.
"Fingers," said the younger man.
"What, Fireball?"
"What now?"
"Whaddaya mean, what now?"
"I mean, we've lost Vala and the disk. We've lost communication with HQ and...and..." Fireball looked down at his teaspoon and fiddled with it.
"And it stinks. It stinks like the city morgue on a hot summer day after an Italian familia dinner and the air conditioner is out."
"Yeah. What do we do?"
Fingers sipped his espresso and put down the small demitasse with a tiny clink. "Whaddaya think we should do?"
"Ah, er. I would think the only thing left is to return to HQ and--" he looked out the window, "--and." He broke down, leaning against the window. "Moey! I'm too young to be on a calendar!" Despair overcame him. The same dark, dank despair felt only by those on Death Row, or having realized they missed the Big Game.
"Got news for you." Fingers kicked him under the table. "They like 'em young. Maybe they'll cut ya some slack. You're lucky."
"Lucky? Me? How?"
"Well, I figger they're gonna fit me for some ce-ment speedos."
This only caused the younger man to slump even more against the window as he murmured unintelligibly. They sat that way for a while before the old man spoke again. By this time, Fireball had started to rock slowly in his seat.
"Look, kid, we don't have to go back."
Fireball stared at Fingers, his eyes empty of understanding. "We don't have to...?"
They were interrupted as a waiter came to pick up their empty cups. Fingers motioned for a couple more and they were delivered with a suspicious glance from the man in the apron. "I don't like that waiter," said Fingers as he leaned over. "Look, Fireball, we don't have to go back."
Shock slapped Fireball like cold December pond water. "But, Fingers, the Code...never--"
"--leave the mission. I know. I've sat in that chair right there and quoted the same thing too many times. And each time I've suffered for it. Each time I regretted it. I regretted it like that Grand Canyon mule regrets ever being saddled with four hundred pound Aunt Millie from Nebraska. You never can get rid of the weight of failing the mission. They brand ya with it. It's on ya like cheap wine on a bum, like a cheap suit on a fat man, like flies on a bad Roquefort.
"But, the others. What about the others?"
"Leave 'em. We're useless to 'em."
"No, we're not! They need us!"
"'ball," Fingers said. "If we go back to HQ, we'd be as useless as Louie Two-Fingers at a bowling tournament. We'd just be walkin' inta a den of photographers. It'd be a massacre."
"But the cause, the rebellion! What--"
"That ship is sunk like a tanker full of pumpkin pies. I say it's time fer these rats to find a life raft."
"You can't be serious, old man!"
Out of the corner of his eye, Fingers saw the waiter on the phone. "I'm as serious as a Baptist with a Bible in his hand and hellfire in his belly."
"What can we do?" Fireball muttered. "What can we do?"
"I'm tellin' ya. We've got to leave them behind like Lance left Ullrich. Like Lance dusted Vinokourov. This is our mountain stage. This is our Alps." The old man stood, grunting at the creeks in his knees. He buttoned up the overcoat and tied it shut with a decisive pull. "I don't know where you're going, kid, but youse welcome to ride along."
Fireball slumped back in the chair. "I-I can't, Fingers. I can't."
"Thought so. Always the dreamer, weren't ya?" He picked up his small briefcase containing all of the belongings he could carry, everything that mattered to him. Fingers pulled his hat low on his head. "So, where are you going?"
"I think, I'll head back to HQ." Fireball nodded to himself. "Yeah. Pick up the pieces. They'll need some help. First I'll stop in Paris, maybe see if I can track Vala." With an eager face he looked up. "You? Where are you going to end up?"
"End up? I'm not sure my time's over just yet." The old man looked down at the youngster. "I've always wanted to see California. Y'know, visit Hollywood, see Disneyland, walk across the Golden Gate." He smiled.
"Sounds great, Fingers. You say hi to Rita Hayward for me when you see her, will ya?"
"Sure, kid. Sure." He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it to Fireball. "Here, my lucky charm, figger you gonna need it more than me." He motioned to an expensive sedan coming down the street, dark figures huddled behind smoked glass. "See ya 'round."
Fingers strode to the door, pulled up his collar, turned away from the approaching car, and disappeared into the Spanish rain.
Fireball gathered his things quickly and slipped out of the back door of the cafe into the storm. As he walked towards the train station, he rubbed his thumb over the rare, gold 1787 Galleon Fingers had given him.
by MrFlyingFingers