Generation Kill AU - You Will Be For Me and I Will Fight For You (Brad Colbert/Nate Fick, NC-17, 1/4
Generation Kill
Brad Colbert/Nate Fick
Word Count: 37,383
Alternate Universe, NC-17
You Will Be For Me and I Will Fight For You
On a Thursday afternoon in early February, Brad Colbert gets arrested by the Los Angeles Police Department.
It's not the first time that this has occurred; Brad doesn't think much about it.
Besides which, it's just the LAPD, not the FBI or Homeland Security, so Brad's only mildly irritated when he's handcuffed and shoved in the back of a squad car. His irritation climbs a notch to annoyed when he's marched through the squad room.
Around the time he's handcuffed to an interrogation table and the words "murder in the first-degree" enter the conversation, Brad starts to rethink his initial assessment of the situation.
Brad started his less-than-lawful career grifting tourists and picking pockets. Shop-lifting and raiding warehouses came a little bit later. For several years he earned an excellent living changing grades for trust-fund kids and improving the driving records of those predisposed toward DUIs. At one point he even had a legitimate sideline restoring old motorcycles.
These days Brad earns his living hacking computers.
He is, and has been, many things -- but he is not a murderer.
Nobody seems particularly interested in that fact.
"Youse went in that liquor store and shot that man in cold blood!" Detective Sixta rails, banging on the table between them for emphasis. "Don't lie to me when I'm talkin' to you, boy!"
Brad rolls his shoulders back, trying to lessen the strain of the handcuffs pulling his muscles in awkward positions. Plus, he hasn't shaved in a few days and his stubble itches.
He glances at his own reflection in the interrogation window. He doesn't think it shows, but he's growing irate and it has nothing to do with the pleased expression on Sixta's partner's face.
Schwetje's never been Brad's biggest fan. A couple of run-ins in Brad's formative years have tainted their association.
"I was home watching The Magnificent Seven on cable," Brad grits out.
"You got anybody that can verify that?" Schwetje chews on a toothpick while he talks.
"I was watching TV; it's not a spectator sport."
"You think you're real funny, don't you, Colbert? We'll see who's laughing when this is over."
Sixta shakes his head. "Son, I'm tryin' to help you. You know Craig don't like you much. He'd love to see you locked up. Me, I reckon this is just a misunderstanding. Why don't you help me out? You two have an argument? He try and short change you?"
"Don't waste your time," Schwetje interrupts. "He's a criminal. All criminals are the same. He robbed that man for two-hundred and eighteen dollars. Hell, he'd stab a man as soon as look at him."
"I don't have to rob people to afford my toothpicks," Brad says scornfully.
Schwetje pulls the toothpick from his mouth. "Oh, that's right, you play with computers now."
Brad ignores him.
"You been playin' with computers?" Sixta barks. "Is that what this was about? You like watchin' porn on the internets?" There's a long pause where Sixta smiles. It's creepy. Brad shifts back in his seat.
"You like watchin' TV so much, how about you watch this show?" Sixta says, rapping on the one-way glass loudly.
Brad tenses up. He doesn't know what's coming, but he knows he's not going to like it. He watches as a short man with dark hair pushes a TV on a cart into the room.
The man looks at Brad briefly, his upper lip curling in distaste before he starts the video and leaves.
It's a black-and-white video. Standard surveillance.
The time code runs in the corner showing Brad at the local bodega. He goes in every morning for a protein shake and a banana. This video could be for any day in the last two years. There's Mr. Sung. There's Brad saying "hi." There's Brad getting his Superfood Odwalla. His banana.
There's Brad shooting Mr. Sung pointblank.
"We don't need your confession, son," Sixta says, stopping the tape. "We got everything we need here."
Schwetje gets to his feet. "Isn't it great we have the death penalty in California?" he says, spewing spittle while he talks. "I'd love to see you fry."
Brad can feel all the blood leaving his face. "I want a lawyer."
"Good luck with that." Schwetje laughs before following Sixta out of the interrogation room.
Brad sits in a gray room with dirty, cobwebbed windows and stares at his reflection in the interrogation window, trying to figure out how he got here. How this happened. He didn't kill anybody. He doesn't even own a gun. The only time he left the house all day was to go on his morning run. Yes, he stopped at the corner store afterward, but Mr. Sung was alive when he left.
Brad doesn't care what the video says.
On a more shallow note, he's cold and hungry. And he needs to pee. He won't ask these pigs for fucking anything, though. He'd sooner piss in his pants than ask to use the bathroom.
He looks up when the door finally opens. A man in a navy suit strides in. His features don't scream "lawyer". He doesn't even have a briefcase. He may be wearing a tie, but he looks about twelve.
Brad eyes him warily.
The man slides into the seat Schwetje vacated, folds his hands on top of the table and gazes impassively at Brad. They stay like this for some time, the man staring at Brad and Brad staring back.
"I hope you talk more than this in court," Brad says, breaking the detente.
"You're in a lot of trouble, Brad."
"I didn't kill anybody," Brad says flatly.
"That's not what the video says."
"That video is a lie."
The man shifts in his chair. "It seems pretty convincing to the DA. They're looking at you for twenty-five-to-life."
"I didn't do it," Brad retorts.
The man shrugs. "I would think that you, of all people, would know that that doesn't count for much at this point."
Brad leans back, his handcuffs rattling against the metal table. "What do you mean, 'you of all people'?"
"I've seen your record. This doesn't look good."
For the second time in several hours, Brad feels something suspiciously like alarm. "Those records were sealed when I was eighteen."
"You're a hacker. You know that nothing ever truly disappears. Especially not when it comes to twelve-year-old adoptees who hack into the NSA mainframe."
"I was eleven."
"And then there was that incident in military school."
Brad's mind churns furiously. "I want a different lawyer."
"That's your prerogative," the man concedes. "Especially since I'm not your lawyer."
Brad glares in furious disbelief. "Who the fuck are you then?"
The man's eyes are a sharp, clear green. "I'm the only one who can get the charges against you dropped."
"I didn't do anything wrong," Brad insists. "I shouldn't be charged at all!"
"Nobody cares about what you didn't do. They only care about what they think you did."
The man reaches inside his suit jacket and pulls out a card.
It's cream-colored and only has eight letters on it in Copperplate Bold font.
"Nate Fick," Brad reads.
Fick gets to his feet. "This is your only chance at freedom, Brad. Come with me. Work for me. You have skills most people can only dream of. My company wants to use them."
"Your company? Who the hell is your company?"
"I can't tell you that unless you accept my offer."
"I don't even fucking know you."
"You'll get to know me," Fick says, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets.
"I want my lawyer," Brad persists doggedly.
"Okay," Fick nods. "Say you get your public defender - because I highly doubt you have the second coming of Johnnie Cochran on speed dial. Public defenders by definition are overworked and underpaid, which means he, or she, has got dozens of clients besides you. He takes one look at you and your rap sheet. What do you think he's going to do? He's going to try and get you a deal."
"I don't need a deal. I'm innocent."
"What do you think you'll have to cop to? Murder in the second degree? So it's fifteen-to-life instead of twenty-five. Who knows, you may get out before you're forty. I wouldn't bet on it though. It's an election year for the DA - he can't look soft."
Brad glowers at Fick.
Fick shakes his head. "Your choice," he says, turning away and crossing toward the exit. He raps on the door with authority. The door creaks on its metal hinges when it swings open. Sixta and Schwetje are waiting on the other side. Schwetje is still chewing on that fucking toothpick.
Fick nods to them. "He's all--"
"Wait!" Brad says, trying to stand up only to be held down by his handcuffs.
Fick turns back, a pale-brown eyebrow raised. "Yes, Brad?"
Brad can feel a chill run down his spine. His toes are cramping in his Chuck Taylors and all he wants is to go home, stop at the liquor store across from Ye Olde Rustic Inn, buy a gallon of tequila and forget that today ever happened.
That's not going to happen now.
There are three sets of eyes on Brad that he can see, and who knows how many more on the other side of the interrogation window. Brad inhales shakily.
"Brad?" Fick prompts again.
Brad's lips are dry, cracked. They hurt when he licks them. He'd forgotten about the split lip he'd earned when the police busted into his apartment and threw him against the wall. He's been too busy trying to ignore the probable concussion and the ache in his eye socket that comes from an impressive black eye.
"I'll go," Brad concedes.
"Don't do me any favors," Fick replies dryly.
"Take me with you," Brad says. "Please."
Brad can't hear the vociferous protestations of Sixta and Schwetje over the blood rushing in his ears, but he doesn't have to hear to watch Fick cross the room, produce a small silver key from his suit pocket and uncuff Brad.
Brad watches the cuffs settle on the table and then looks back up at Fick, at the slight upturn at the left corner of his mouth.
"C'mon," Fick says, nodding towards the open door. "Let's get out of here."
Eight minutes later Brad walks out of the Hollywood Police Station on Wilcox and into the mild Los Angeles night. There's a dry breeze from the Santa Anas and across the street the sign for Aladdin Bail Bonds shines brightly in the darkness.
Fick is right behind Brad, and the minute they clear the red brick wall that surrounds the station, Brad takes off. He makes it sixteen feet before every muscle in his body cries out in agony and he collapses on his face. It's possible he loses consciousness for a minute. Even his teeth hurt; he might have wet himself.
And he can't move.
He can hear footsteps approaching, though, and moments later he's being rolled onto his back.
Fick stands over Brad and at his side is a fair-haired man holding a taser. Fick's partner is so blond his eyebrows are practically nonexistent despite the street lights overhead.
Fick shakes his head as though he's disappointed. "Brad, this is not how you start a relationship."
Brad would tell him to fuck off, but he can't communicate.
The man with no eyebrows looks at Fick. "This is the one you wanted, Nate?"
Fick's lips quirk. "He's got potential."
"He's got trust issues."
"We all have trust issues, Mike."
Brad's eyeballs hurt. He can barely watch as Fick bends down and grabs his ankles. Mike's hands curl under his armpits. They hoist him up as though he were a rag doll. He feels like one.
Mike protests as they carry Brad away, "Yeah, but your trust issue weighs about 200 pounds."
Brad makes a noise as moments later he's folded in the backseat of a car like a tortilla.
Fick climbs in the back with him. Mike climbs into the driver's seat, fastens his seat belt and pulls away from the curb. The car is expensive. Brad can smell the leather and see the wood paneling out of the corner of his eye. His left ring finger is spasming, and he bangs his head against the window in frustration.
"You need to sedate him," Mike says from the driver's seat.
Brad hates Mike.
"I was hoping it wouldn't come to that," Fick says, shifting next to him. He extracts a white box from underneath Mike's seat, which leads to a large needle in Fick's hand.
Brad grunts, but he can't get away from Fick's fingers on his bicep, pushing up the sleeve of his ratty Volcom T-shirt. "You'll forgive me for this eventually," Fick says just as Brad feels a sharp pinch in his arm.
Not fucking likely.
When Brad Colbert was eleven, his adoptive parents died in a car crash. Two days later, amidst the disorder and sadness of a family sitting shiva, Brad was arrested by the FBI for hacking into the NSA mainframe.
Brad wasn't looking for anything specific, he just needed something to do. He didn't have his mom monitoring his computer time anymore. He didn't have her disconnecting the dial-up every ten minutes to call his aunts.
Needless to say, he did not endear himself to any of his family members with that little show.
Brad's younger sister, Leah, was taken in by relatives, but nobody wanted the wild, delinquent boy with the gangly limbs and a penchant for taking apart electronics.
Jewish charity wouldn't allow him to be sent to an orphanage, so he was shipped off to military school.
And then, when Brad was sixteen, he ran away from the military school to Los Angeles after an unfortunate practice incident with a sleeper hold.
His instructors had always said that Brad didn't know his own strength, but before that day it had always been a good thing. Brad was stronger, smarter, more agile, a better leader.
Brad was a warrior; he needed a war. So he waged war against the upper class by stealing their credit cards and profiting from the stupidity of their children.
Maybe it wasn't the typical American dream, but Brad's dream of joining the Marine Corps was out of the question after the incident in military school, so hacking become Brad's American dream and that was plenty.
Brad wakes up in an upright position. It's an improvement - but not by much. There's a strap across his waist and there's this incredible pressure building behind his eyes. He's pretty sure his head is going to explode, and when he turns to the side, he bangs into a window.
He tries to process the scene: outside the window is nothing but darkness and clouds. Clouds? He's on a plane? When did he get on a plane?
Brad looks around wildly. The plane's cabin is small. Private. There are only a handful of chairs, but there's a cream-colored sofa along one entire side of the cabin with a wet bar in the far corner. When Brad cranes his head he can see Mike two chairs back reading a newspaper.
Brad tries to rub the sleep from his eyes but is prevented from doing so by the handcuffs attaching him to his seat.
Fick sits across from him reading a paperback book called L École des Maris. Molière.
Brad rattles the cuffs loudly. "I thought we were past this," he snaps.
Fick ignores Brad for several seconds, not even lifting his head when he finally deigns to speak. "We took a step back when you did your Usain Bolt impersonation."
"I had to make sure you were paying attention."
Fick turns a page in his book before meeting Brad's eyes. "You have no idea how long I've been paying attention, do you, Iceman?"
The fact that Fick knows Brad's on-line name is mind-boggling. Then again, he already seems to know everything else. "Who are you?"
"Go back to sleep," Fick says, ignoring Brad's question entirely. "We're not there yet."
"Answer my question," Brad demands.
"Go to sleep or get drugged again. Your choice."
Fick goes back to his book; Brad makes a noise of exasperation. He slumps back into his chair, which is actually fairly comfortable. There's even room for him to stretch out his legs.
He closes his eyes, feigning sleep only to fall asleep after all.
The next time Brad wakes up, he's lying on a single bed in a room. There are white walls, a silver chair, a toilet, a tiny sink, and in the corner are several shelves holding clothes and books. In another corner there's a video surveillance camera.
Wasn't the whole point of this exercise not to go to jail?
Brad gets to his feet. He feels like he's been sleeping for days. It's entirely possible he has.
His knees are stiff and he stumbles when he walks over to the door and studies it. He taps at it curiously. It's metal. Reinforced. The entire thing is hinged. There's a sliding opening at the top and a hinged flap at the bottom. He read about this in The Count of Monte Cristo when he was fifteen.
Brad bangs on the door with his fist. "I'm hungry!" he yells.
When he puts his ear to the door though, he can't hear anything besides his own breathing and the wasp-like buzz of burning filaments in the fluorescent lights overhead.
This is bullshit.
Brad strides over to the corner with the surveillance camera. The little red light is on. Brad waves at the lens. "Fick, where the fuck are you?" he shouts angrily. "I'm hungry! I want out of here! This is bullshit!"
The silence is deafening. Brad sighs and rubs his hand over his head.
What the hell has he gotten himself into?
After a very thorough inspection of his room, Brad plunks himself down on his bed with a copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses.
The selection of books isn't bad. Besides Metamorphoses, there's: To Kill a Mockingbird, Catch 22, Nichomachean Ethics, a biography of George Washington, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, and a few of FDR's speeches.
Brad'll die of hunger long before he dies of boredom.
He still has enough energy left to spring off of the bed when the flap at the bottom of the door opens. He scrambles over and drops down to his knees just as several brown plastic pouches are shoved into his room.
He grabs one and studies it carefully: Meals Ready to Eat.
There's peanut butter, crackers, pound cake, jalapeño and cheese, chili with beans, chocolate and raisin nut mix and two toaster pastries.
"Where the fuck is the water?" Brad demands pounding on the door.
"Stop being such a fucking princess," a male voice calls from the other side. A second later a liter bottle of water rolls through the flap.
"Am I supposed to eat this shit with my fingers?"
"How fucking stupid do you think I am?" the man bristles. "You think I'm going to give you a spoon to dig your ass out? I read that book, too!"
"Fuck you," Brad says resignedly.
"Only if you ask nicely."
"I'll pass."
"Your loss, homes."
Brad sighs, leans back against the wall and rips open the packet of jalapeño and cheese with his teeth.
It tastes like shit, but it's still food.
Brad has one more meal like this before the lights are turned out. It's clearly time for bed. Brad's too freaked out to sleep. When the lights are turned back on hours later, Brad grabs his chair and drags it over to the corner with the surveillance camera. In a series of fluid movements, Brad grabs the chair and uses it to batter the camera to death.
Pieces rain down on Brad like confetti and every time the chair hits the walls, the vibrations rattle his bones.
That should get Fick's attention.
Except that nobody comes. Nobody at all.
He doesn't even get fed that day.
Thankfully, he's still got the toaster pastries and raisin nut mix.
Brad doesn't get fed the next day either.
He's so hungry his stomach grumbles non-stop. He finishes both the biography on George Washington and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, since he has nothing else to do.
Brad can't remember the last time he showered or brushed his teeth, and at this point his smell is starting to offend even his own nose. His beard is driving him crazy.
He spends a good amount of time using a screw from the ravaged video camera to draw the schematics of a computer he was building on the wall.
The day after that food delivery resumes. More jalapeño and cheese, cheese-filled pretzels, chili and macaroni and a First Strike bar. Brad's stomach is starting to disapprove of this diet. He could really use some tacos and beer. He's halfway through the cheese-filled pretzels before it occurs to him that they taste strange.
When Brad wakes up, he smells paint. There's also a new video camera in his room.
Brad gets to his feet slowly, taking time to survey the AO. His books are gone. The plain olive-green clothes that had been stacked in the corner have been replaced with black sweatpants and T-shirts. His computer schematics have been painted over.
He goes to sit down and finds that the chair has been bolted to the floor.
When he rubs his jaw, he realizes his beard has been shaved off. So has his hair. He smells like soap and shampoo. His teeth, however, are still fuzzy and the metallic taste in his mouth could stand serious improvement.
A part of Brad is pretty sure he should feel violated, or at the very least indignant, but between military school and living in L.A. whatever sense of privacy Brad had is long dead.
He walks over to the video camera in the corner and stares into the lens for a long time. "You and I need to have a talk, Nate Fick," he says directly into the seeing eye. "I've tried to do what you want, but you are really starting to piss me off."
Brad stands on his toes and jumps up to yank the camera off the wall.
Instead he's electrocuted by about 10,000 volts. It's not as bad as being tasered. He doesn't piss himself, but it makes him very unhappy.
He's still cursing when the door creaks open and a stocky man with gray hair enters carrying a metal folding chair. He's wearing camouflage fatigues, but there's no name or affiliation on them. "Hello, Brad." The man's voice is raspy as though he's a longtime smoker.
Brad contemplates the chair. "Where's Fick?"
"We'll get to that later," the man says, unfolding the chair and sitting down. He gestures for Brad to do the same.
Brad sits on the edge of his bed. "Who are you?"
The man's mouth is a thin line. "You can call me Godfather."
Godfather. Who the hell calls themselves Godfather? "Where am I?" Brad demands.
"You're home."
"I have a home."
"This is your new home, son. Fewer roaches than your place off of Franklin and Edgemont."
"Where am I?" Brad repeats.
"You're in Section. Team Bravo."
"And where the hell is Section?" Brad is getting very tired of this cryptic bullshit.
"Godfather thinks you might want to worry less about where you are and more about why you're here."
Anybody who talks about themselves in third person can't be right in the head. Brad starts shifting down his bed, away from Godfather and closer to the door that's wide open. "Then why the fuck am I here?"
"Because it's time for you to serve your country."
Brad makes a derisory noise. "I tried that once; it didn't work out."
"It was a shame about that boy ending up in a coma," Godfather agrees, "but that's just because you didn't have the proper training. We're here to change that."
Brad stands up abruptly. This is the second time someone's mentioned Sidney Hall in the last week; it's two times too many. "I made my deal with Fick, not with you. I want out of here."
"I'm afraid that's not possible, son."
"Let me see Fick." Brad's anger is palpable in his tone. His can feel his heart beating in his skull.
"If you want to see Nate, you need to get a handle on yourself," Godfather intones, getting to his feet. "This isn't the civilian world, you don't get anything just because you ask. You have to earn your rights."
Brad has always been more highly evolved than most people. He has a natural ability to assess a situation and know what needs to get done. He has no idea what makes him try to take down Godfather, but when he finds himself face down on the floor and wrapped in a sleeper hold he's pretty sure it was a bad fucking idea.
He's not used to having those.
Brad wakes up with a headache, yet again. Between the tasers, the poisoning and the fucking ninjas disguised as old men, he's starting to get concerned about brain damage.
He sits up rapidly when he sees a dark-haired guy standing at the foot of his bed, glaring at him impatiently. "Jesus fucking Christ, Sleeping Beauty," the man bitches. "I've been trying to get your ass up for almost two minutes. Another minute and I was going to give you a swirlie. I'd have to get your Goliath ass over to the toilet first, but I was thinking about it real hard."
Brad would know this voice anywhere. "Did you bring me food?"
The man rolls his eyes. "Do I look like a motherfucking supermarket to you? Damn, homes, you bring people food a few times and suddenly it's all, 'Ray, bring me food! Ray, kiss my ass! Ray, suck my dick!' Sorry, dude, but I only plan to suck one dick and it ain't yours."
"You're Ray?" Brad says just to verify he's got the name right.
"Your dearest pal," Ray confirms.
"Ray?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
Ray smirks. "I knew we were gonna be friends. Get your Aryan ass up; it's time for your training."
Brad eyes Ray suspiciously but gets to his feet anyway. "Where's Fick?"
Ray snorts. "Hate to break it to you, Brad, but you don't get the carrot first around here; you get the stick."
Brad looks down at the flip-flops that have magically appeared on the floor. "What the hell are you going to train me to do?" he says, slipping on the flip-flops and adjusting his black sweatpants and T-shirt.
Ray's wearing a T-shirt and jeans, tattoos peaking out from everywhere. His grin is toothy. "What are we going to train you to do?" he parrots. "Everything."
Brad doesn't know what he thought life outside his room was like, but the fact that there are no other doors in his hallway does not fill him with hope. Nor does the fact that Ray has to type in a pass code to open the door at the end of said hall.
After they walk through the door, Ray glances over his shoulder at Brad. "I know you memorized that shit, but you should know that they change it every four hours, so don't start feeling brilliant just yet."
Brad scowls; Ray snickers.
There's a series of rights and lefts and ups and downs and stairs and doors. Every now and then they even see another human being, mostly armed guards, and every last one of them gives Brad a very wide clearance.
"Your reputation precedes you," Ray explains. "You are the Iceman. The one. You are motherfucking Neo and this is your Matrix."
Brad shakes his head. "Shut up, Ray."
Ray grins as he stops before a door and keys in several more numbers. Several locks click open and then Ray turns the handle and leads Brad into James Bond's wet dream.
There are men and women everywhere testing everything possible. In one area two people are testing what looks like a flamethrower in a can. In another area, there's a woman piloting boots that Brad saw in the Iron Man movie two years ago. A table in the middle of the room keeps flickering in and out of existence as though it's trying to disappear, which isn't half as scary as the two nerds arguing about whether or not they should try their invisibility solution on themselves.
"Don't even think about it," Ray says, waving Brad through the room. "You think your life is bad now, you touch this shit and even Nate won't be able to save you."
The next room Ray and Brad enter is tidy, ascetic. The lighting so bright it's nearly blinding. Against the wall are various anatomy charts, and in one corner is something that looks like an Iron Maiden but is made of plastic. In another corner, a man about Ray's height, with blond hair, is leaning over a Lucite desk. He's got black ear-buds, and he's singing some atrocious country song while cleaning the pieces of what Brad calculates are at least five different handguns.
"Walt," Ray calls.
The man keeps cleaning.
"Walt!"
The man carries on singing.
"WALT!"
The man pulls out an ear-bud and graces Ray with a tolerant look. "I'm right here, Ray, you don't have to yell."
Ray's face colors and Brad eyeballs him shrewdly. "I was just practicing for when you finally agree to sleep with me," Ray mutters.
Walt shakes his head and pulls out his other ear-bud. "Keep practicing," he says, before acknowledging Brad by walking toward him and extending his hand. "Walt."
Brad shakes Walt's hand. It's the first polite contact he's had in god knows how long. "Brad."
"Ah," Walt says with a smile. "I was wondering when I'd finally get to meet you."
"You've heard about me?" Brad asks as Walt reaches around him, grabs a black box from the counter and then sets it on the floor at Brad's feet.
Walt presses a lever on the box; the box unfolds itself and two footprints appear. After a moment they begin to glow, emitting an electric blue light. "You're the one we've been waiting for," Walt confirms, glancing up at Brad. "Now if you could step on the footprints."
Brad doesn't move. "What is it?"
"It's not going to fry your nuts," Ray interjects. "Just do what he says."
Walt rolls his eyes. "It's perfectly safe. It's just a body scanner."
"If this turns me sterile I'm going to castrate you with a butter knife," Brad warns Ray.
Ray grabs himself. "You're not man enough for these nuts."
Brad laughs in spite of himself. It's been a long time since he's done that, too. He gives Ray a dubious look, but steps onto the footprints. Immediately an imaging screen projects upwards showing the outline of a man who's Brad's height. On the screen various numbers appear and begin running just to the left of Brad's head.
"Okay, what the hell is this?" Brad demands as Walt picks up an electronic pad and begins taking down notes.
"I'm taking your measurements," Walt says, as though people get this done every day. "Arms out."
"My measurements for what?" Brad says, raising his arms to shoulder height.
"Ear comms. Clothes. Shoes. Rifles. Did you know your left arm is .038 inches shorter than your right?"
"What rifles?"
"Your sniper rifles. These numbers show how you're balanced, they help us decide what's the best weapon for you."
Sniper rifles? Weapons? Shit.
Walt carries on obliviously. "Your left leg is .062 inches longer than your right. You're a lot closer to symmetrical than most people." He sounds slightly impressed.
"Pointy ears and all." Ray tosses in.
"My ears aren't pointy," Brad protests.
"Okay, Spock."
"Ray?" Walt interrupts.
"Yeah?"
"Shut up, I'm trying to work here."
After Brad meets with Walt, Ray takes him to physical fitness training with a Greek God called Rudy.
Brad surfs and runs pretty religiously, but Rudy looks as though his muscles have been chiseled from marble. The fact that Rudy gives him a pair of running shoes while talking about the state of Brad's chi is clearly a distraction technique.
It works.
The next three hours with Rudy entail squats and lifts, sprints on treadmills with weights strapped to Brad's ankles, stomach crunches while suspended upside down and enough pull-ups, push-ups and chin-ups for Brad to lose the ability to lift his arms.
When their training is over and Brad's lying on his back ready to die, Rudy makes him sit up and meditate. Out the corner of his eye, Brad can see Ray laughing into the collar of his T-shirt.
The only good thing is that when Rudy's done with him and Brad's relinquished his shoes, Brad's allowed to have a shower for the first time in a week. Of course the shower is just a nozzle on the wall in the bathroom, but there's soap and shampoo and a toothbrush and a razor that Ray confiscates when Brad's done with them.
"Sorry," Ray says apologetically while locking Brad's toothbrush and razor into a metal locker. "Can't have you stabbing me in the hand when I feed you."
"It's a toothbrush."
"And a razor," Ray says. "I've seen Oz. You are not about to shiv my ass."
"I'll pass - your ass is too flat for me."
Ray sticks out his tongue. "Fuck you, Brad."
After Rudy, Ray takes Brad down six flights of stairs and through three doors, two of which require retinal identification. Eventually, Brad finds himself in a gymnasium with a large plexiglass wall and door in the middle. Ray drops down in a plastic chair by the door to the gym and waves Brad toward the plexiglass partition that's reinforced at the edges with steel.
At first, it's hard for Brad to parse together what he's seeing. On the other side of the partition there's a man with his back to Brad. He's standing in a lane, which has a paper target at the end. Brad watches him for some time. Eventually the man turns, holsters a gun and removes his ear protection.
It's only when the man crosses the floor, unlocks the door and takes off his safety glasses that Brad recognizes him. "If you taser me again, we're going to have a problem," Brad says by way of greeting.
Mike grins. "That all depends on you, now, doesn't it?" he says, waving Brad inside the shooting range.
"You're going to teach me how to shoot?" Brad asks, following Mike towards the demarcated lanes.
Mike's mouth quirks at the corners. "Nate told me you already knew how to shoot."
"That was a long time ago."
"It's like fuckin' and ridin' a bike - some things you just don't forget."
"And if I did?"
"Well, then that dog just ain't gonna hunt."
Brad stares vacantly. He doesn't speak this language.
"I'll teach you to shoot," Mike explains. "Don't worry about that, but you've got a long way to go before you get to play with a loaded gun."
Brad purses his lips. "Then why am I here?"
"Weapons training," Mike says brightly. "There are a whole lot of weapons out there in the world that don't fire bullets. You're going to become an expert in at least ninety-five percent of them."
After six hours of training, Brad's had enough. He's ready to eat. Ray offers him a bag filled with MREs. "When do I get real food?" Brad asks, his mouth full of something masquerading as spaghetti and meatballs, except that nobody should be able to squeeze spaghetti and meatballs out of a plastic pouch.
"You know how far you have to go to get a toothbrush?" Ray asks, leading him back up four flights of stairs and through three doors.
"No," Brad says.
"Yeah, well, you have even farther than that to go to get real food."
"Great," Brad sighs.
Brad's last session of the day is Communications and Language Training. The minute Brad walks through the door with Ray, dark eyes glare at him from behind several laptops and books spread out on a rectangular table.
"Who's this?" the man says, aggravation etched into his face.
"This is your new pupil," Ray says with a grin.
"And what the hell am I supposed to be teaching this whisky tango redneck brother of yours?"
Ray smiles broadly. "Everything."
"Everything?"
Ray gestures at Brad as though he's channeling Vanna White. "Poke, this is Brad."
Brad gets the feeling there's been a memo about him.
Poke rubs a hand over his shaved head. "Of course it is." He turns to Brad. "You speak anything else besides white boy?"
Brad fixes Poke with a droll look. "Pendejo, cabrón, maricón, hijo de puta..."
"Okay, anything that can be used in a sentence that won't get you kicked in the balls?" Poke corrects.
"No."
Poke shakes his head. "Well then, it's gonna be a long fucking day, but if I can get Ray's illiterate ass speaking fluent Spanish and Farsi, your ass should be picking up whores in Paris, Rome and Kabul in no time."
"Just what I've always wanted," Brad says, "my own French whore."
Poke snorts. "Don't let Nate hear you say that."
Brad's days revolve around Poke, Rudy and Mike, but he sees Ray the most.
Ray provides him with most of his meals, most of his human interaction and most of his dirty jokes. Ray walks him from session to session, and every now and then they detour by Walt's office so Ray can flirt and Brad can feel superior.
On any given day, Brad's up at what he assumes is the early morning to run with Rudy. After his run, Ray feeds him breakfast-type MREs ranging from cheese spread with bacon to dried fruit and cinnamon rolls en route to his classes with Poke. Poke believes in total immersion, so they spend three hours looking at the morning news and reading the newspapers from Mexico, Spain and Argentina. Every conversation has to be in Spanish, even when Brad knows whatever he's trying to say doesn't make any sense.
After that, Brad gets beaten with sticks and books and chairs by Mike for another two hours. Mike is a firm believer in the power of an everyday weapon.
Brad's reprieve is lunch in his room and an hour to stare at his walls. At the end of his first week he finds a copy of War and Peace on his bed. And so it goes. Day after day. Week after week. He takes classes, he behaves and he gets books.
He doesn't get to see Fick - Nate. But at least he gets to interact with other people, and after being locked in solitary that's a big fucking deal.
The day that Poke decides Brad's conversationally fluent in Spanish is also the day that Brad finally gets the drop on Mike in practice. Rudy is still pounding Brad's ass into the practice mats, but two out of three isn't bad.
When Brad gets back to his room there's a toothbrush wrapped in plastic and an economy-size tube of Aquafresh on his bed. Propped upright between them is a familiar cream-colored business card with Copperplate Bold writing.
Brad picks up the business card and rubs his thumb over the embossed "c" and the "k."
He hasn't seen Nate in forever. Not that he wants to see him, per se, but Brad has a lot of questions that nobody's answering. He wasn't chosen because he's stupid, and he's getting the feeling that whatever he's signed up for is going to make him wish he'd taken his chances in L.A.
He tosses the business card back on his bed and goes to put the toothbrush and toothpaste on a shelf that is now occupied by four new books: Our Mutual Friend, The Art of War, Robinson Crusoe and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
A few days later, they're en route to see Mike as Ray babbles about something Walt did the other day: smiling or farting or picking his nose.
Brad's spent most of the morning trying to translate yesterday's issue of Le Monde, the French newspaper, but his head just isn't in the right place. Every time he couldn't figure out the French word he threw in the Spanish word instead, and if Poke smacks him on the back of the head with a section of that newspaper one more time there's going to be bloodshed.
In short, Brad's had enough.
"Ray, what am I being trained for?"
Ray stops in the middle of the hallway. There are no windows, there are no numbers, there are only doors with keypads and biometric finger scanners. And there are cameras everywhere. But there are always cameras everywhere. Brad's gotten used to that.
The look Ray gives Brad speaks volumes. "Please don't tell me you're this inbred," he says finally. "I've got fifty bucks riding on your White Power ass."
"You've got fifty bucks that says what?" Brad coaxes.
Ray exhales through his nose. "Fifty bucks that says you're going to be the best assassin the government's ever seen."
"Whose government?" Brad presses.
"The Government of Don't Be a Retarded Dick," Ray bitches. "You think the Canadian government would keep your ass locked away like a secret weapon? The only place that fucking paranoid is the good old U.S. of fucking your ass without lube."
Brad rubs his hand over his mouth.
This is what he was afraid of.
Ray likes to take different routes to Brad's lessons. More often than not the halls are deserted, but every now and then, they'll pass by men in camo fatigues or the guards who stalk the hallways. All of whom always give Brad a wide berth.
The one time Brad asks if he'll ever be allowed to go to training sessions on his own, Ray comes to a halt and looks at Brad like he's grown another head.
"I have to watch your pasty Hebrew ass on video when you shower and cover my eyes when you jerk off, do you really think they're letting you ride solo anytime soon? This ain't the Wild Wild West, Brad. Do you know how much money they're spending on you? You should be glad that they don't make me wipe your ass after you take a dump, too."
Brad can feel his right eyebrow arching. "That's the second time you've mentioned my ass, is there something Walt should be worried about?"
"If I went in for irate, sarcastic, emotionally-stunted Playgirl centerfolds you'd be at the top of my list. Thankfully, I have taste."
Ray turns around and Brad smacks him in the back of the head.
"Hey!" Ray protests loudly, glaring over his shoulder. "I'm telling Walt you hit me."
"Walt hits you all the time."
"Those are love taps."
"You really are deranged."
Ray flips Brad the bird. "Fine, I'm telling Nate, too."
"Who's Nate?" Brad says snidely. "I don't know any Nate."
"Aw, is somebody feeling neglected?" Ray teases.
Brad misses deliberately when he swings for Ray.
"C'mon," Ray says. "Let's keep moving. If you're late, I'll be the one who suffers for it."
"Oh, you mean they might make you be quiet for a minute or two?"
"Shut up, Brad."
Brad laughs.
According to today's copy of Le Monde Brad's now been in Section more than three months. He's in better shape, has better reflexes and is approaching semi-fluency in French. Once a week Mike even invites Rudy to spar with Brad after they've both run him into the ground.
For all his skills and growing acumen, Brad hasn't been outside since the day Nate picked him up in L.A. He misses the sun. He needs air that isn't recycled. He's been so good; he just wants this one thing.
"Any chance of me going outside anytime soon?" Brad asks Ray as they leave Poke's offices to head back to Brad's room for lunch.
Ray chuckles as he keys them into the stairwell and hands Brad a packet of something they're calling vegetable lasagna. Brad's spends so much time working out these days that Ray has started carrying around a messenger bag full of MREs to keep him on his feet. "You know how you want real food?"
Brad snorts as he rips into the MRE with his teeth. "Yeah," he says, spitting the plastic down the stairs.
"I think you might get the food before you get to see daylight."
"Yeah, I figured as much," he says, glancing to the side as two guards pass them on the stairs. There's nothing of note about the guards except that one of them is carrying a bag of McDonalds. Brad can smell the grease. Can feel the heat from the bag as the guards move by, and then things begin clicking in Brad's head.
The stairwell has to lead somewhere else besides Section. Somewhere like the outside world.
He takes off instinctively, sprinting up the stairs three at a time.
He ignores Ray yelling at him, putting on a burst of speed when he hears the pounding of boots on his heels. Brad reaches the top of the stairwell sooner than he expected. Now there are red lights flashing and a siren is going off below him.
The fact that the door doesn't have a keypad shocks the hell out of Brad as he bulldozes through it. He'd planned to kick it open.
The sunlight is blinding and Brad stumbles, falling to his knees. He hasn't been outside in so long - it's beautiful. The sky is blue and bright, the clouds like streaks overhead. There's a neatly paved and cleaned sidewalk underneath him. The air is strange though, more humid than he's used to.
This definitely isn't L.A.
Brad inhales deeply anyway, looking over his shoulder when the door bursts open behind him. Ray is flanked by the guards they passed in the stairwell and all three are out of breath. Both guards are holding tasers.
"I just wanted to go outside," Brad explains, holding up his hands.
Ray rubs his face. "Brad."
Brad's never heard this tone of voice from Ray before, he sounds distressed. Genuinely worried.
Brad keeps his hands in the air as he gets to his feet. "Ray." He hopes it sounds like an apology. It's as close to one as Ray's going to get from him.
Ray waves the guards aside and types at the keypad by the door. "Management isn't going to like this," he says stiffly.
Brad takes one last glimpse over his shoulder before he goes back inside. There are several cars parked on this stretch of road. There's also a sign that says Van Ness-UDC Metro.
What the hell is UDC?
Brad doesn't get taken back to his room. Instead he's put into a 5X10 cinder block cell. There's no bed, no chair, no video camera. There's no toilet. There is a bucket. The last thing Brad sees before the door is closed behind him is Ray rubbing his forehead.
He thought he was in solitary before; clearly he was wrong.
In the last three months, Brad's felt stress and confusion and anger. There have been moments of real interest and accomplishment; sometimes there's been companionship.
Brad hasn't felt despair in years.
It's just as crippling as he remembers.
The lights are kept on all the time in solitary.
Twice a day Brad is given bread and water.
He doesn't sleep. He eats a little.
He conjugates verbs in French.
Aimer. Détester. Tuer.
I love. You love. He loves.
I hate. You hate. He hates.
I kill. You kill. He kills.
By the fourth day, Brad is making up stories in French about Nicholas Sarkozy having dinner with Voltaire, Zola and Napoleon. He's dehydrated, wired with exhaustion and the door to his cell is almost two-thirds open by the time he registers the motion and gets to his feet.
He's expecting Ray. Or Godfather. Possibly more guards.
He finds himself face-to-face with Nate Fick instead.
"You?" Brad says in disbelief.
Nate's wearing a dark gray suit and blue oxford. His smile is brilliant. "I missed you, too," he says.
Brad's been training under the most strenuous circumstances possible. Last month, Ray started waking him up in the middle of the night for extra defensive weapons sessions with two specialists, Pappy and Stafford.
The only thing that stops Brad from shattering Nate's cheekbone with his fist is Nate's hand blocking him. One minute, Brad's upright and the next Nate's twisted his arm behind his back and swept his feet out from underneath him. The concrete is cool against Brad's cheek now that Nate has him face down on the ground. There's a suit-clad arm around his neck and a warm mouth by his ear.
Nate's wearing silver cufflinks.
Brad fights it. Tries to lever himself up, tries to roll Nate off. They collide with one of the cell walls, but Nate's hold doesn't lessen. Brad weighs more. He has all this training. He... can't get away.
He can feel it when Nate exhales on him. "Behave, Brad."
"Fuck you," Brad spits out, desperately trying to elbow Nate in the ribs. It's hard to talk with Nate's arm crushing his throat. "You left me here."
"I haven't left you anywhere; I've been watching everything you do. What do you think all these cameras are for?"
"You left me with these people," Brad rails. There are spots in his vision, he can't breathe and Nate's a dead weight on his back.
"These people have taken better care of you than anybody has in years; they see your potential. I see your potential."
"I don't need anybody to take care of me."
"That's exactly what you need."
"Fuck you, Nate," Brad repeats.
Nate looses something suspiciously close to a sigh. "Not if you don't behave."
Brad means to say something, but instead he passes out.
Two days later they let Brad out of solitary.
Four guards escort him back to his room. Between them Brad counts four M-16s, six Glock 9mm, three hunting knives, a throwing star, which Mike finally let Brad start using a week ago, and four tasers.
Fine, he gets the point.
It certainly explains why they didn't bother handcuffing him.
The door to Brad's room is already open, and standing in the corner, flipping through his copy of War and Peace, is Nate. He's wearing a chocolate brown suit and using his own business card to thumb through the pages. Brad assumes the card came from his book since Brad's been using it as a bookmark.
"You can go now," Nate says, dismissing the guards.
"Sir, we have orders from Godfather to stand watch."
"You can leave now," Nate repeats firmly.
The guards nod in unison and back out of the room. Brad can hear their footsteps retreat, but there's no beep of a keypad at the end of his hallway, no snick of a door closing.
They're loitering in the hallway. Brad wouldn't expect anything less at this point.
He looks around his room. The toilet is still there. So is the sink. Everything else is gone except for the book in Nate's hand.
"We're going on a trip," Nate says, closing the book and tossing it into a black duffel bag at his feet.
Brad narrows his eyes. "If you're going to kill me, how about you just get it over with?"
Nate looks mildly surprised. "Kill you? When did you get so melodramatic?"
"Since I met you I've been incapacitated by taser, choke hold, and needle. I've been beat with chairs, books, sticks, lamps, nearly lost three fingers and a toe to Mike's knife training, gotten third degree burns from Rudy and his fucking ropes and ruined my body with more MREs than an entire military platoon could stomach. Ask me something stupid again."
Nate lowers his eyes, rubbing at the collar of the thin sweater underneath his suit jacket. When he makes eye contact again, there's amusement on his face and he laughs low in the back of his throat. "Point made."
"I'd probably find you charming if I hadn't been shitting in a bucket and living on stale bread for the last six days," Brad says sourly. "Now what the fuck do you want?"
Nate crouches down and picks up the duffel bag. "C'mon," he says, walking past Brad smelling of sandalwood and apples.
Brad follows. It's not like he has anything better to do.
Brad's pretty sure he knows every corridor and pathway in Section, but when Nate takes a series of turns and doors Brad's never seen he has to reassess his assumptions. They come to a steel door that requires a retinal scan, a thumb print and voice recognition to open and Brad takes a deep breath.
He doesn't know what he thought he was going to see, but a series of offices with floor-to-ceiling windows isn't it. Sunlight streams in everywhere and Brad slows down to drink it in. It's like he's walked into heaven.
"Brad." Nate's tone is sharp; Brad snaps to attention. His desire not to fuck up is reinforced by the four guards still shadowing them.
They make a right down one hall, a left down another. At the third turn, a left, Nate ushers Brad into the only office Brad's seen so far that doesn't have glass walls. Except it's not an office, it's a bathroom. A very nice one. He won't be breaking out this way.
There's a large marble counter with a double basin below a mirror the size of a plasma screen TV. There's an enormous shower with frosted glass doors, a toilet that looks like a throne and a glass cabinet on legs that's full of bath products. Next to the cabinet is a stack of white fluffy towels that look thicker than the mattress Brad's been sleeping on in Section.
Brad turns to Nate, and Nate gives him a slight nod of the head. "Take a shower and clean yourself up." Nate points to a garment bag hanging on the wall. "And put on some real clothes. I can't take you out looking like this."
Brad studies Nate intently. "What's the catch?"
Nate scratches the side of his neck. "There's no catch: you smell, I'm fixing it," he says, turning on his heel and heading for the door.
Brad waits for it. There has to be something. For months he's been treated like property, like a soldier; you don't start treating soldiers like people for no reason.
Nate stops with his hand on the door. "I'm going to try and make this better. Don't let me regret it."
Brad stares at the closed door long after Nate's gone and then he goes to the cabinet and pulls out several of everything. He strips off his clothes, turns the water to scalding hot and washes his hair three times, scrubs his skin until it turns red.
He jerks off with his eyes on the ceiling. He knows Nate's watching him from somewhere. He can't believe he didn't realize that before now.
After Brad climbs out of the shower, he wraps himself in a towel and studies his reflection in the mirror. Six days locked away haven't done him any good, but that's nothing compared to being in Section for the last few months. He's pale. And thin. He's lean though; he can see every rib, draw lines based on his muscle definition. He's never been in shape like this before. There is not an ounce of fat, not a hint of beer or Cheetos.
He looks like a fighter.
This is what they've made him.
He goes back to the cabinet and checks the inventory. There's an electric razor and a set of clippers. There are also several packages of disposable razors. His mouth twists into a grin and he looks up at the ceiling. "Is this your way of saying you trust me?" he asks, waving the razors at the overhead lights.
Obviously there's no reply, but Brad knows that Nate's somewhere nearby with that little half-smile on his lips.
Brad's hair has grown in from when it was shaved, but he's become sort of partial to the buzz cut. The clippers are pretty user-friendly even though Brad's not used to shaving his own head. After he's done with his hair, he wastes a entire travel-sized container of shaving cream shaving his face, and then he climbs back into the shower and washes himself again.
The knock finally comes when Brad's straightening the lapels on his black suit jacket. "Yeah?"
The door opens and Nate glances around the corner. "My sisters don't take this long," he says, clearly diverted. "And there are three of them."
Brad turns around and presents himself for inspection. "Let's see how long they take when you put them in solitary for six days."
Nate gives a wry grin. "Touché."
Brad stands at attention as Nate walks around him, picking off invisible lint and making approving noises. When he's done he stops in front of Brad, sucking on his lower lip.
It's distracting.
"I'm taking you away for a while," Nate says.
"Yeah, I think you mentioned that."
Nate's expression turns hard. "If you try to run, I will shoot you, Brad. Don't think otherwise."
Brad tugs at the collar on his black button-down. "Aren't you supposed to be building my trust?"
Nate's eyes crease at the corners. "I'm taking you away, aren't I?"
Part II
Brad Colbert/Nate Fick
Word Count: 37,383
Alternate Universe, NC-17
You Will Be For Me and I Will Fight For You
On a Thursday afternoon in early February, Brad Colbert gets arrested by the Los Angeles Police Department.
It's not the first time that this has occurred; Brad doesn't think much about it.
Besides which, it's just the LAPD, not the FBI or Homeland Security, so Brad's only mildly irritated when he's handcuffed and shoved in the back of a squad car. His irritation climbs a notch to annoyed when he's marched through the squad room.
Around the time he's handcuffed to an interrogation table and the words "murder in the first-degree" enter the conversation, Brad starts to rethink his initial assessment of the situation.
Brad started his less-than-lawful career grifting tourists and picking pockets. Shop-lifting and raiding warehouses came a little bit later. For several years he earned an excellent living changing grades for trust-fund kids and improving the driving records of those predisposed toward DUIs. At one point he even had a legitimate sideline restoring old motorcycles.
These days Brad earns his living hacking computers.
He is, and has been, many things -- but he is not a murderer.
Nobody seems particularly interested in that fact.
"Youse went in that liquor store and shot that man in cold blood!" Detective Sixta rails, banging on the table between them for emphasis. "Don't lie to me when I'm talkin' to you, boy!"
Brad rolls his shoulders back, trying to lessen the strain of the handcuffs pulling his muscles in awkward positions. Plus, he hasn't shaved in a few days and his stubble itches.
He glances at his own reflection in the interrogation window. He doesn't think it shows, but he's growing irate and it has nothing to do with the pleased expression on Sixta's partner's face.
Schwetje's never been Brad's biggest fan. A couple of run-ins in Brad's formative years have tainted their association.
"I was home watching The Magnificent Seven on cable," Brad grits out.
"You got anybody that can verify that?" Schwetje chews on a toothpick while he talks.
"I was watching TV; it's not a spectator sport."
"You think you're real funny, don't you, Colbert? We'll see who's laughing when this is over."
Sixta shakes his head. "Son, I'm tryin' to help you. You know Craig don't like you much. He'd love to see you locked up. Me, I reckon this is just a misunderstanding. Why don't you help me out? You two have an argument? He try and short change you?"
"Don't waste your time," Schwetje interrupts. "He's a criminal. All criminals are the same. He robbed that man for two-hundred and eighteen dollars. Hell, he'd stab a man as soon as look at him."
"I don't have to rob people to afford my toothpicks," Brad says scornfully.
Schwetje pulls the toothpick from his mouth. "Oh, that's right, you play with computers now."
Brad ignores him.
"You been playin' with computers?" Sixta barks. "Is that what this was about? You like watchin' porn on the internets?" There's a long pause where Sixta smiles. It's creepy. Brad shifts back in his seat.
"You like watchin' TV so much, how about you watch this show?" Sixta says, rapping on the one-way glass loudly.
Brad tenses up. He doesn't know what's coming, but he knows he's not going to like it. He watches as a short man with dark hair pushes a TV on a cart into the room.
The man looks at Brad briefly, his upper lip curling in distaste before he starts the video and leaves.
It's a black-and-white video. Standard surveillance.
The time code runs in the corner showing Brad at the local bodega. He goes in every morning for a protein shake and a banana. This video could be for any day in the last two years. There's Mr. Sung. There's Brad saying "hi." There's Brad getting his Superfood Odwalla. His banana.
There's Brad shooting Mr. Sung pointblank.
"We don't need your confession, son," Sixta says, stopping the tape. "We got everything we need here."
Schwetje gets to his feet. "Isn't it great we have the death penalty in California?" he says, spewing spittle while he talks. "I'd love to see you fry."
Brad can feel all the blood leaving his face. "I want a lawyer."
"Good luck with that." Schwetje laughs before following Sixta out of the interrogation room.
Brad sits in a gray room with dirty, cobwebbed windows and stares at his reflection in the interrogation window, trying to figure out how he got here. How this happened. He didn't kill anybody. He doesn't even own a gun. The only time he left the house all day was to go on his morning run. Yes, he stopped at the corner store afterward, but Mr. Sung was alive when he left.
Brad doesn't care what the video says.
On a more shallow note, he's cold and hungry. And he needs to pee. He won't ask these pigs for fucking anything, though. He'd sooner piss in his pants than ask to use the bathroom.
He looks up when the door finally opens. A man in a navy suit strides in. His features don't scream "lawyer". He doesn't even have a briefcase. He may be wearing a tie, but he looks about twelve.
Brad eyes him warily.
The man slides into the seat Schwetje vacated, folds his hands on top of the table and gazes impassively at Brad. They stay like this for some time, the man staring at Brad and Brad staring back.
"I hope you talk more than this in court," Brad says, breaking the detente.
"You're in a lot of trouble, Brad."
"I didn't kill anybody," Brad says flatly.
"That's not what the video says."
"That video is a lie."
The man shifts in his chair. "It seems pretty convincing to the DA. They're looking at you for twenty-five-to-life."
"I didn't do it," Brad retorts.
The man shrugs. "I would think that you, of all people, would know that that doesn't count for much at this point."
Brad leans back, his handcuffs rattling against the metal table. "What do you mean, 'you of all people'?"
"I've seen your record. This doesn't look good."
For the second time in several hours, Brad feels something suspiciously like alarm. "Those records were sealed when I was eighteen."
"You're a hacker. You know that nothing ever truly disappears. Especially not when it comes to twelve-year-old adoptees who hack into the NSA mainframe."
"I was eleven."
"And then there was that incident in military school."
Brad's mind churns furiously. "I want a different lawyer."
"That's your prerogative," the man concedes. "Especially since I'm not your lawyer."
Brad glares in furious disbelief. "Who the fuck are you then?"
The man's eyes are a sharp, clear green. "I'm the only one who can get the charges against you dropped."
"I didn't do anything wrong," Brad insists. "I shouldn't be charged at all!"
"Nobody cares about what you didn't do. They only care about what they think you did."
The man reaches inside his suit jacket and pulls out a card.
It's cream-colored and only has eight letters on it in Copperplate Bold font.
"Nate Fick," Brad reads.
Fick gets to his feet. "This is your only chance at freedom, Brad. Come with me. Work for me. You have skills most people can only dream of. My company wants to use them."
"Your company? Who the hell is your company?"
"I can't tell you that unless you accept my offer."
"I don't even fucking know you."
"You'll get to know me," Fick says, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets.
"I want my lawyer," Brad persists doggedly.
"Okay," Fick nods. "Say you get your public defender - because I highly doubt you have the second coming of Johnnie Cochran on speed dial. Public defenders by definition are overworked and underpaid, which means he, or she, has got dozens of clients besides you. He takes one look at you and your rap sheet. What do you think he's going to do? He's going to try and get you a deal."
"I don't need a deal. I'm innocent."
"What do you think you'll have to cop to? Murder in the second degree? So it's fifteen-to-life instead of twenty-five. Who knows, you may get out before you're forty. I wouldn't bet on it though. It's an election year for the DA - he can't look soft."
Brad glowers at Fick.
Fick shakes his head. "Your choice," he says, turning away and crossing toward the exit. He raps on the door with authority. The door creaks on its metal hinges when it swings open. Sixta and Schwetje are waiting on the other side. Schwetje is still chewing on that fucking toothpick.
Fick nods to them. "He's all--"
"Wait!" Brad says, trying to stand up only to be held down by his handcuffs.
Fick turns back, a pale-brown eyebrow raised. "Yes, Brad?"
Brad can feel a chill run down his spine. His toes are cramping in his Chuck Taylors and all he wants is to go home, stop at the liquor store across from Ye Olde Rustic Inn, buy a gallon of tequila and forget that today ever happened.
That's not going to happen now.
There are three sets of eyes on Brad that he can see, and who knows how many more on the other side of the interrogation window. Brad inhales shakily.
"Brad?" Fick prompts again.
Brad's lips are dry, cracked. They hurt when he licks them. He'd forgotten about the split lip he'd earned when the police busted into his apartment and threw him against the wall. He's been too busy trying to ignore the probable concussion and the ache in his eye socket that comes from an impressive black eye.
"I'll go," Brad concedes.
"Don't do me any favors," Fick replies dryly.
"Take me with you," Brad says. "Please."
Brad can't hear the vociferous protestations of Sixta and Schwetje over the blood rushing in his ears, but he doesn't have to hear to watch Fick cross the room, produce a small silver key from his suit pocket and uncuff Brad.
Brad watches the cuffs settle on the table and then looks back up at Fick, at the slight upturn at the left corner of his mouth.
"C'mon," Fick says, nodding towards the open door. "Let's get out of here."
Eight minutes later Brad walks out of the Hollywood Police Station on Wilcox and into the mild Los Angeles night. There's a dry breeze from the Santa Anas and across the street the sign for Aladdin Bail Bonds shines brightly in the darkness.
Fick is right behind Brad, and the minute they clear the red brick wall that surrounds the station, Brad takes off. He makes it sixteen feet before every muscle in his body cries out in agony and he collapses on his face. It's possible he loses consciousness for a minute. Even his teeth hurt; he might have wet himself.
And he can't move.
He can hear footsteps approaching, though, and moments later he's being rolled onto his back.
Fick stands over Brad and at his side is a fair-haired man holding a taser. Fick's partner is so blond his eyebrows are practically nonexistent despite the street lights overhead.
Fick shakes his head as though he's disappointed. "Brad, this is not how you start a relationship."
Brad would tell him to fuck off, but he can't communicate.
The man with no eyebrows looks at Fick. "This is the one you wanted, Nate?"
Fick's lips quirk. "He's got potential."
"He's got trust issues."
"We all have trust issues, Mike."
Brad's eyeballs hurt. He can barely watch as Fick bends down and grabs his ankles. Mike's hands curl under his armpits. They hoist him up as though he were a rag doll. He feels like one.
Mike protests as they carry Brad away, "Yeah, but your trust issue weighs about 200 pounds."
Brad makes a noise as moments later he's folded in the backseat of a car like a tortilla.
Fick climbs in the back with him. Mike climbs into the driver's seat, fastens his seat belt and pulls away from the curb. The car is expensive. Brad can smell the leather and see the wood paneling out of the corner of his eye. His left ring finger is spasming, and he bangs his head against the window in frustration.
"You need to sedate him," Mike says from the driver's seat.
Brad hates Mike.
"I was hoping it wouldn't come to that," Fick says, shifting next to him. He extracts a white box from underneath Mike's seat, which leads to a large needle in Fick's hand.
Brad grunts, but he can't get away from Fick's fingers on his bicep, pushing up the sleeve of his ratty Volcom T-shirt. "You'll forgive me for this eventually," Fick says just as Brad feels a sharp pinch in his arm.
Not fucking likely.
When Brad Colbert was eleven, his adoptive parents died in a car crash. Two days later, amidst the disorder and sadness of a family sitting shiva, Brad was arrested by the FBI for hacking into the NSA mainframe.
Brad wasn't looking for anything specific, he just needed something to do. He didn't have his mom monitoring his computer time anymore. He didn't have her disconnecting the dial-up every ten minutes to call his aunts.
Needless to say, he did not endear himself to any of his family members with that little show.
Brad's younger sister, Leah, was taken in by relatives, but nobody wanted the wild, delinquent boy with the gangly limbs and a penchant for taking apart electronics.
Jewish charity wouldn't allow him to be sent to an orphanage, so he was shipped off to military school.
And then, when Brad was sixteen, he ran away from the military school to Los Angeles after an unfortunate practice incident with a sleeper hold.
His instructors had always said that Brad didn't know his own strength, but before that day it had always been a good thing. Brad was stronger, smarter, more agile, a better leader.
Brad was a warrior; he needed a war. So he waged war against the upper class by stealing their credit cards and profiting from the stupidity of their children.
Maybe it wasn't the typical American dream, but Brad's dream of joining the Marine Corps was out of the question after the incident in military school, so hacking become Brad's American dream and that was plenty.
Brad wakes up in an upright position. It's an improvement - but not by much. There's a strap across his waist and there's this incredible pressure building behind his eyes. He's pretty sure his head is going to explode, and when he turns to the side, he bangs into a window.
He tries to process the scene: outside the window is nothing but darkness and clouds. Clouds? He's on a plane? When did he get on a plane?
Brad looks around wildly. The plane's cabin is small. Private. There are only a handful of chairs, but there's a cream-colored sofa along one entire side of the cabin with a wet bar in the far corner. When Brad cranes his head he can see Mike two chairs back reading a newspaper.
Brad tries to rub the sleep from his eyes but is prevented from doing so by the handcuffs attaching him to his seat.
Fick sits across from him reading a paperback book called L École des Maris. Molière.
Brad rattles the cuffs loudly. "I thought we were past this," he snaps.
Fick ignores Brad for several seconds, not even lifting his head when he finally deigns to speak. "We took a step back when you did your Usain Bolt impersonation."
"I had to make sure you were paying attention."
Fick turns a page in his book before meeting Brad's eyes. "You have no idea how long I've been paying attention, do you, Iceman?"
The fact that Fick knows Brad's on-line name is mind-boggling. Then again, he already seems to know everything else. "Who are you?"
"Go back to sleep," Fick says, ignoring Brad's question entirely. "We're not there yet."
"Answer my question," Brad demands.
"Go to sleep or get drugged again. Your choice."
Fick goes back to his book; Brad makes a noise of exasperation. He slumps back into his chair, which is actually fairly comfortable. There's even room for him to stretch out his legs.
He closes his eyes, feigning sleep only to fall asleep after all.
The next time Brad wakes up, he's lying on a single bed in a room. There are white walls, a silver chair, a toilet, a tiny sink, and in the corner are several shelves holding clothes and books. In another corner there's a video surveillance camera.
Wasn't the whole point of this exercise not to go to jail?
Brad gets to his feet. He feels like he's been sleeping for days. It's entirely possible he has.
His knees are stiff and he stumbles when he walks over to the door and studies it. He taps at it curiously. It's metal. Reinforced. The entire thing is hinged. There's a sliding opening at the top and a hinged flap at the bottom. He read about this in The Count of Monte Cristo when he was fifteen.
Brad bangs on the door with his fist. "I'm hungry!" he yells.
When he puts his ear to the door though, he can't hear anything besides his own breathing and the wasp-like buzz of burning filaments in the fluorescent lights overhead.
This is bullshit.
Brad strides over to the corner with the surveillance camera. The little red light is on. Brad waves at the lens. "Fick, where the fuck are you?" he shouts angrily. "I'm hungry! I want out of here! This is bullshit!"
The silence is deafening. Brad sighs and rubs his hand over his head.
What the hell has he gotten himself into?
After a very thorough inspection of his room, Brad plunks himself down on his bed with a copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses.
The selection of books isn't bad. Besides Metamorphoses, there's: To Kill a Mockingbird, Catch 22, Nichomachean Ethics, a biography of George Washington, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, and a few of FDR's speeches.
Brad'll die of hunger long before he dies of boredom.
He still has enough energy left to spring off of the bed when the flap at the bottom of the door opens. He scrambles over and drops down to his knees just as several brown plastic pouches are shoved into his room.
He grabs one and studies it carefully: Meals Ready to Eat.
There's peanut butter, crackers, pound cake, jalapeño and cheese, chili with beans, chocolate and raisin nut mix and two toaster pastries.
"Where the fuck is the water?" Brad demands pounding on the door.
"Stop being such a fucking princess," a male voice calls from the other side. A second later a liter bottle of water rolls through the flap.
"Am I supposed to eat this shit with my fingers?"
"How fucking stupid do you think I am?" the man bristles. "You think I'm going to give you a spoon to dig your ass out? I read that book, too!"
"Fuck you," Brad says resignedly.
"Only if you ask nicely."
"I'll pass."
"Your loss, homes."
Brad sighs, leans back against the wall and rips open the packet of jalapeño and cheese with his teeth.
It tastes like shit, but it's still food.
Brad has one more meal like this before the lights are turned out. It's clearly time for bed. Brad's too freaked out to sleep. When the lights are turned back on hours later, Brad grabs his chair and drags it over to the corner with the surveillance camera. In a series of fluid movements, Brad grabs the chair and uses it to batter the camera to death.
Pieces rain down on Brad like confetti and every time the chair hits the walls, the vibrations rattle his bones.
That should get Fick's attention.
Except that nobody comes. Nobody at all.
He doesn't even get fed that day.
Thankfully, he's still got the toaster pastries and raisin nut mix.
Brad doesn't get fed the next day either.
He's so hungry his stomach grumbles non-stop. He finishes both the biography on George Washington and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, since he has nothing else to do.
Brad can't remember the last time he showered or brushed his teeth, and at this point his smell is starting to offend even his own nose. His beard is driving him crazy.
He spends a good amount of time using a screw from the ravaged video camera to draw the schematics of a computer he was building on the wall.
The day after that food delivery resumes. More jalapeño and cheese, cheese-filled pretzels, chili and macaroni and a First Strike bar. Brad's stomach is starting to disapprove of this diet. He could really use some tacos and beer. He's halfway through the cheese-filled pretzels before it occurs to him that they taste strange.
When Brad wakes up, he smells paint. There's also a new video camera in his room.
Brad gets to his feet slowly, taking time to survey the AO. His books are gone. The plain olive-green clothes that had been stacked in the corner have been replaced with black sweatpants and T-shirts. His computer schematics have been painted over.
He goes to sit down and finds that the chair has been bolted to the floor.
When he rubs his jaw, he realizes his beard has been shaved off. So has his hair. He smells like soap and shampoo. His teeth, however, are still fuzzy and the metallic taste in his mouth could stand serious improvement.
A part of Brad is pretty sure he should feel violated, or at the very least indignant, but between military school and living in L.A. whatever sense of privacy Brad had is long dead.
He walks over to the video camera in the corner and stares into the lens for a long time. "You and I need to have a talk, Nate Fick," he says directly into the seeing eye. "I've tried to do what you want, but you are really starting to piss me off."
Brad stands on his toes and jumps up to yank the camera off the wall.
Instead he's electrocuted by about 10,000 volts. It's not as bad as being tasered. He doesn't piss himself, but it makes him very unhappy.
He's still cursing when the door creaks open and a stocky man with gray hair enters carrying a metal folding chair. He's wearing camouflage fatigues, but there's no name or affiliation on them. "Hello, Brad." The man's voice is raspy as though he's a longtime smoker.
Brad contemplates the chair. "Where's Fick?"
"We'll get to that later," the man says, unfolding the chair and sitting down. He gestures for Brad to do the same.
Brad sits on the edge of his bed. "Who are you?"
The man's mouth is a thin line. "You can call me Godfather."
Godfather. Who the hell calls themselves Godfather? "Where am I?" Brad demands.
"You're home."
"I have a home."
"This is your new home, son. Fewer roaches than your place off of Franklin and Edgemont."
"Where am I?" Brad repeats.
"You're in Section. Team Bravo."
"And where the hell is Section?" Brad is getting very tired of this cryptic bullshit.
"Godfather thinks you might want to worry less about where you are and more about why you're here."
Anybody who talks about themselves in third person can't be right in the head. Brad starts shifting down his bed, away from Godfather and closer to the door that's wide open. "Then why the fuck am I here?"
"Because it's time for you to serve your country."
Brad makes a derisory noise. "I tried that once; it didn't work out."
"It was a shame about that boy ending up in a coma," Godfather agrees, "but that's just because you didn't have the proper training. We're here to change that."
Brad stands up abruptly. This is the second time someone's mentioned Sidney Hall in the last week; it's two times too many. "I made my deal with Fick, not with you. I want out of here."
"I'm afraid that's not possible, son."
"Let me see Fick." Brad's anger is palpable in his tone. His can feel his heart beating in his skull.
"If you want to see Nate, you need to get a handle on yourself," Godfather intones, getting to his feet. "This isn't the civilian world, you don't get anything just because you ask. You have to earn your rights."
Brad has always been more highly evolved than most people. He has a natural ability to assess a situation and know what needs to get done. He has no idea what makes him try to take down Godfather, but when he finds himself face down on the floor and wrapped in a sleeper hold he's pretty sure it was a bad fucking idea.
He's not used to having those.
Brad wakes up with a headache, yet again. Between the tasers, the poisoning and the fucking ninjas disguised as old men, he's starting to get concerned about brain damage.
He sits up rapidly when he sees a dark-haired guy standing at the foot of his bed, glaring at him impatiently. "Jesus fucking Christ, Sleeping Beauty," the man bitches. "I've been trying to get your ass up for almost two minutes. Another minute and I was going to give you a swirlie. I'd have to get your Goliath ass over to the toilet first, but I was thinking about it real hard."
Brad would know this voice anywhere. "Did you bring me food?"
The man rolls his eyes. "Do I look like a motherfucking supermarket to you? Damn, homes, you bring people food a few times and suddenly it's all, 'Ray, bring me food! Ray, kiss my ass! Ray, suck my dick!' Sorry, dude, but I only plan to suck one dick and it ain't yours."
"You're Ray?" Brad says just to verify he's got the name right.
"Your dearest pal," Ray confirms.
"Ray?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
Ray smirks. "I knew we were gonna be friends. Get your Aryan ass up; it's time for your training."
Brad eyes Ray suspiciously but gets to his feet anyway. "Where's Fick?"
Ray snorts. "Hate to break it to you, Brad, but you don't get the carrot first around here; you get the stick."
Brad looks down at the flip-flops that have magically appeared on the floor. "What the hell are you going to train me to do?" he says, slipping on the flip-flops and adjusting his black sweatpants and T-shirt.
Ray's wearing a T-shirt and jeans, tattoos peaking out from everywhere. His grin is toothy. "What are we going to train you to do?" he parrots. "Everything."
Brad doesn't know what he thought life outside his room was like, but the fact that there are no other doors in his hallway does not fill him with hope. Nor does the fact that Ray has to type in a pass code to open the door at the end of said hall.
After they walk through the door, Ray glances over his shoulder at Brad. "I know you memorized that shit, but you should know that they change it every four hours, so don't start feeling brilliant just yet."
Brad scowls; Ray snickers.
There's a series of rights and lefts and ups and downs and stairs and doors. Every now and then they even see another human being, mostly armed guards, and every last one of them gives Brad a very wide clearance.
"Your reputation precedes you," Ray explains. "You are the Iceman. The one. You are motherfucking Neo and this is your Matrix."
Brad shakes his head. "Shut up, Ray."
Ray grins as he stops before a door and keys in several more numbers. Several locks click open and then Ray turns the handle and leads Brad into James Bond's wet dream.
There are men and women everywhere testing everything possible. In one area two people are testing what looks like a flamethrower in a can. In another area, there's a woman piloting boots that Brad saw in the Iron Man movie two years ago. A table in the middle of the room keeps flickering in and out of existence as though it's trying to disappear, which isn't half as scary as the two nerds arguing about whether or not they should try their invisibility solution on themselves.
"Don't even think about it," Ray says, waving Brad through the room. "You think your life is bad now, you touch this shit and even Nate won't be able to save you."
The next room Ray and Brad enter is tidy, ascetic. The lighting so bright it's nearly blinding. Against the wall are various anatomy charts, and in one corner is something that looks like an Iron Maiden but is made of plastic. In another corner, a man about Ray's height, with blond hair, is leaning over a Lucite desk. He's got black ear-buds, and he's singing some atrocious country song while cleaning the pieces of what Brad calculates are at least five different handguns.
"Walt," Ray calls.
The man keeps cleaning.
"Walt!"
The man carries on singing.
"WALT!"
The man pulls out an ear-bud and graces Ray with a tolerant look. "I'm right here, Ray, you don't have to yell."
Ray's face colors and Brad eyeballs him shrewdly. "I was just practicing for when you finally agree to sleep with me," Ray mutters.
Walt shakes his head and pulls out his other ear-bud. "Keep practicing," he says, before acknowledging Brad by walking toward him and extending his hand. "Walt."
Brad shakes Walt's hand. It's the first polite contact he's had in god knows how long. "Brad."
"Ah," Walt says with a smile. "I was wondering when I'd finally get to meet you."
"You've heard about me?" Brad asks as Walt reaches around him, grabs a black box from the counter and then sets it on the floor at Brad's feet.
Walt presses a lever on the box; the box unfolds itself and two footprints appear. After a moment they begin to glow, emitting an electric blue light. "You're the one we've been waiting for," Walt confirms, glancing up at Brad. "Now if you could step on the footprints."
Brad doesn't move. "What is it?"
"It's not going to fry your nuts," Ray interjects. "Just do what he says."
Walt rolls his eyes. "It's perfectly safe. It's just a body scanner."
"If this turns me sterile I'm going to castrate you with a butter knife," Brad warns Ray.
Ray grabs himself. "You're not man enough for these nuts."
Brad laughs in spite of himself. It's been a long time since he's done that, too. He gives Ray a dubious look, but steps onto the footprints. Immediately an imaging screen projects upwards showing the outline of a man who's Brad's height. On the screen various numbers appear and begin running just to the left of Brad's head.
"Okay, what the hell is this?" Brad demands as Walt picks up an electronic pad and begins taking down notes.
"I'm taking your measurements," Walt says, as though people get this done every day. "Arms out."
"My measurements for what?" Brad says, raising his arms to shoulder height.
"Ear comms. Clothes. Shoes. Rifles. Did you know your left arm is .038 inches shorter than your right?"
"What rifles?"
"Your sniper rifles. These numbers show how you're balanced, they help us decide what's the best weapon for you."
Sniper rifles? Weapons? Shit.
Walt carries on obliviously. "Your left leg is .062 inches longer than your right. You're a lot closer to symmetrical than most people." He sounds slightly impressed.
"Pointy ears and all." Ray tosses in.
"My ears aren't pointy," Brad protests.
"Okay, Spock."
"Ray?" Walt interrupts.
"Yeah?"
"Shut up, I'm trying to work here."
After Brad meets with Walt, Ray takes him to physical fitness training with a Greek God called Rudy.
Brad surfs and runs pretty religiously, but Rudy looks as though his muscles have been chiseled from marble. The fact that Rudy gives him a pair of running shoes while talking about the state of Brad's chi is clearly a distraction technique.
It works.
The next three hours with Rudy entail squats and lifts, sprints on treadmills with weights strapped to Brad's ankles, stomach crunches while suspended upside down and enough pull-ups, push-ups and chin-ups for Brad to lose the ability to lift his arms.
When their training is over and Brad's lying on his back ready to die, Rudy makes him sit up and meditate. Out the corner of his eye, Brad can see Ray laughing into the collar of his T-shirt.
The only good thing is that when Rudy's done with him and Brad's relinquished his shoes, Brad's allowed to have a shower for the first time in a week. Of course the shower is just a nozzle on the wall in the bathroom, but there's soap and shampoo and a toothbrush and a razor that Ray confiscates when Brad's done with them.
"Sorry," Ray says apologetically while locking Brad's toothbrush and razor into a metal locker. "Can't have you stabbing me in the hand when I feed you."
"It's a toothbrush."
"And a razor," Ray says. "I've seen Oz. You are not about to shiv my ass."
"I'll pass - your ass is too flat for me."
Ray sticks out his tongue. "Fuck you, Brad."
After Rudy, Ray takes Brad down six flights of stairs and through three doors, two of which require retinal identification. Eventually, Brad finds himself in a gymnasium with a large plexiglass wall and door in the middle. Ray drops down in a plastic chair by the door to the gym and waves Brad toward the plexiglass partition that's reinforced at the edges with steel.
At first, it's hard for Brad to parse together what he's seeing. On the other side of the partition there's a man with his back to Brad. He's standing in a lane, which has a paper target at the end. Brad watches him for some time. Eventually the man turns, holsters a gun and removes his ear protection.
It's only when the man crosses the floor, unlocks the door and takes off his safety glasses that Brad recognizes him. "If you taser me again, we're going to have a problem," Brad says by way of greeting.
Mike grins. "That all depends on you, now, doesn't it?" he says, waving Brad inside the shooting range.
"You're going to teach me how to shoot?" Brad asks, following Mike towards the demarcated lanes.
Mike's mouth quirks at the corners. "Nate told me you already knew how to shoot."
"That was a long time ago."
"It's like fuckin' and ridin' a bike - some things you just don't forget."
"And if I did?"
"Well, then that dog just ain't gonna hunt."
Brad stares vacantly. He doesn't speak this language.
"I'll teach you to shoot," Mike explains. "Don't worry about that, but you've got a long way to go before you get to play with a loaded gun."
Brad purses his lips. "Then why am I here?"
"Weapons training," Mike says brightly. "There are a whole lot of weapons out there in the world that don't fire bullets. You're going to become an expert in at least ninety-five percent of them."
After six hours of training, Brad's had enough. He's ready to eat. Ray offers him a bag filled with MREs. "When do I get real food?" Brad asks, his mouth full of something masquerading as spaghetti and meatballs, except that nobody should be able to squeeze spaghetti and meatballs out of a plastic pouch.
"You know how far you have to go to get a toothbrush?" Ray asks, leading him back up four flights of stairs and through three doors.
"No," Brad says.
"Yeah, well, you have even farther than that to go to get real food."
"Great," Brad sighs.
Brad's last session of the day is Communications and Language Training. The minute Brad walks through the door with Ray, dark eyes glare at him from behind several laptops and books spread out on a rectangular table.
"Who's this?" the man says, aggravation etched into his face.
"This is your new pupil," Ray says with a grin.
"And what the hell am I supposed to be teaching this whisky tango redneck brother of yours?"
Ray smiles broadly. "Everything."
"Everything?"
Ray gestures at Brad as though he's channeling Vanna White. "Poke, this is Brad."
Brad gets the feeling there's been a memo about him.
Poke rubs a hand over his shaved head. "Of course it is." He turns to Brad. "You speak anything else besides white boy?"
Brad fixes Poke with a droll look. "Pendejo, cabrón, maricón, hijo de puta..."
"Okay, anything that can be used in a sentence that won't get you kicked in the balls?" Poke corrects.
"No."
Poke shakes his head. "Well then, it's gonna be a long fucking day, but if I can get Ray's illiterate ass speaking fluent Spanish and Farsi, your ass should be picking up whores in Paris, Rome and Kabul in no time."
"Just what I've always wanted," Brad says, "my own French whore."
Poke snorts. "Don't let Nate hear you say that."
Brad's days revolve around Poke, Rudy and Mike, but he sees Ray the most.
Ray provides him with most of his meals, most of his human interaction and most of his dirty jokes. Ray walks him from session to session, and every now and then they detour by Walt's office so Ray can flirt and Brad can feel superior.
On any given day, Brad's up at what he assumes is the early morning to run with Rudy. After his run, Ray feeds him breakfast-type MREs ranging from cheese spread with bacon to dried fruit and cinnamon rolls en route to his classes with Poke. Poke believes in total immersion, so they spend three hours looking at the morning news and reading the newspapers from Mexico, Spain and Argentina. Every conversation has to be in Spanish, even when Brad knows whatever he's trying to say doesn't make any sense.
After that, Brad gets beaten with sticks and books and chairs by Mike for another two hours. Mike is a firm believer in the power of an everyday weapon.
Brad's reprieve is lunch in his room and an hour to stare at his walls. At the end of his first week he finds a copy of War and Peace on his bed. And so it goes. Day after day. Week after week. He takes classes, he behaves and he gets books.
He doesn't get to see Fick - Nate. But at least he gets to interact with other people, and after being locked in solitary that's a big fucking deal.
The day that Poke decides Brad's conversationally fluent in Spanish is also the day that Brad finally gets the drop on Mike in practice. Rudy is still pounding Brad's ass into the practice mats, but two out of three isn't bad.
When Brad gets back to his room there's a toothbrush wrapped in plastic and an economy-size tube of Aquafresh on his bed. Propped upright between them is a familiar cream-colored business card with Copperplate Bold writing.
Brad picks up the business card and rubs his thumb over the embossed "c" and the "k."
He hasn't seen Nate in forever. Not that he wants to see him, per se, but Brad has a lot of questions that nobody's answering. He wasn't chosen because he's stupid, and he's getting the feeling that whatever he's signed up for is going to make him wish he'd taken his chances in L.A.
He tosses the business card back on his bed and goes to put the toothbrush and toothpaste on a shelf that is now occupied by four new books: Our Mutual Friend, The Art of War, Robinson Crusoe and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
A few days later, they're en route to see Mike as Ray babbles about something Walt did the other day: smiling or farting or picking his nose.
Brad's spent most of the morning trying to translate yesterday's issue of Le Monde, the French newspaper, but his head just isn't in the right place. Every time he couldn't figure out the French word he threw in the Spanish word instead, and if Poke smacks him on the back of the head with a section of that newspaper one more time there's going to be bloodshed.
In short, Brad's had enough.
"Ray, what am I being trained for?"
Ray stops in the middle of the hallway. There are no windows, there are no numbers, there are only doors with keypads and biometric finger scanners. And there are cameras everywhere. But there are always cameras everywhere. Brad's gotten used to that.
The look Ray gives Brad speaks volumes. "Please don't tell me you're this inbred," he says finally. "I've got fifty bucks riding on your White Power ass."
"You've got fifty bucks that says what?" Brad coaxes.
Ray exhales through his nose. "Fifty bucks that says you're going to be the best assassin the government's ever seen."
"Whose government?" Brad presses.
"The Government of Don't Be a Retarded Dick," Ray bitches. "You think the Canadian government would keep your ass locked away like a secret weapon? The only place that fucking paranoid is the good old U.S. of fucking your ass without lube."
Brad rubs his hand over his mouth.
This is what he was afraid of.
Ray likes to take different routes to Brad's lessons. More often than not the halls are deserted, but every now and then, they'll pass by men in camo fatigues or the guards who stalk the hallways. All of whom always give Brad a wide berth.
The one time Brad asks if he'll ever be allowed to go to training sessions on his own, Ray comes to a halt and looks at Brad like he's grown another head.
"I have to watch your pasty Hebrew ass on video when you shower and cover my eyes when you jerk off, do you really think they're letting you ride solo anytime soon? This ain't the Wild Wild West, Brad. Do you know how much money they're spending on you? You should be glad that they don't make me wipe your ass after you take a dump, too."
Brad can feel his right eyebrow arching. "That's the second time you've mentioned my ass, is there something Walt should be worried about?"
"If I went in for irate, sarcastic, emotionally-stunted Playgirl centerfolds you'd be at the top of my list. Thankfully, I have taste."
Ray turns around and Brad smacks him in the back of the head.
"Hey!" Ray protests loudly, glaring over his shoulder. "I'm telling Walt you hit me."
"Walt hits you all the time."
"Those are love taps."
"You really are deranged."
Ray flips Brad the bird. "Fine, I'm telling Nate, too."
"Who's Nate?" Brad says snidely. "I don't know any Nate."
"Aw, is somebody feeling neglected?" Ray teases.
Brad misses deliberately when he swings for Ray.
"C'mon," Ray says. "Let's keep moving. If you're late, I'll be the one who suffers for it."
"Oh, you mean they might make you be quiet for a minute or two?"
"Shut up, Brad."
Brad laughs.
According to today's copy of Le Monde Brad's now been in Section more than three months. He's in better shape, has better reflexes and is approaching semi-fluency in French. Once a week Mike even invites Rudy to spar with Brad after they've both run him into the ground.
For all his skills and growing acumen, Brad hasn't been outside since the day Nate picked him up in L.A. He misses the sun. He needs air that isn't recycled. He's been so good; he just wants this one thing.
"Any chance of me going outside anytime soon?" Brad asks Ray as they leave Poke's offices to head back to Brad's room for lunch.
Ray chuckles as he keys them into the stairwell and hands Brad a packet of something they're calling vegetable lasagna. Brad's spends so much time working out these days that Ray has started carrying around a messenger bag full of MREs to keep him on his feet. "You know how you want real food?"
Brad snorts as he rips into the MRE with his teeth. "Yeah," he says, spitting the plastic down the stairs.
"I think you might get the food before you get to see daylight."
"Yeah, I figured as much," he says, glancing to the side as two guards pass them on the stairs. There's nothing of note about the guards except that one of them is carrying a bag of McDonalds. Brad can smell the grease. Can feel the heat from the bag as the guards move by, and then things begin clicking in Brad's head.
The stairwell has to lead somewhere else besides Section. Somewhere like the outside world.
He takes off instinctively, sprinting up the stairs three at a time.
He ignores Ray yelling at him, putting on a burst of speed when he hears the pounding of boots on his heels. Brad reaches the top of the stairwell sooner than he expected. Now there are red lights flashing and a siren is going off below him.
The fact that the door doesn't have a keypad shocks the hell out of Brad as he bulldozes through it. He'd planned to kick it open.
The sunlight is blinding and Brad stumbles, falling to his knees. He hasn't been outside in so long - it's beautiful. The sky is blue and bright, the clouds like streaks overhead. There's a neatly paved and cleaned sidewalk underneath him. The air is strange though, more humid than he's used to.
This definitely isn't L.A.
Brad inhales deeply anyway, looking over his shoulder when the door bursts open behind him. Ray is flanked by the guards they passed in the stairwell and all three are out of breath. Both guards are holding tasers.
"I just wanted to go outside," Brad explains, holding up his hands.
Ray rubs his face. "Brad."
Brad's never heard this tone of voice from Ray before, he sounds distressed. Genuinely worried.
Brad keeps his hands in the air as he gets to his feet. "Ray." He hopes it sounds like an apology. It's as close to one as Ray's going to get from him.
Ray waves the guards aside and types at the keypad by the door. "Management isn't going to like this," he says stiffly.
Brad takes one last glimpse over his shoulder before he goes back inside. There are several cars parked on this stretch of road. There's also a sign that says Van Ness-UDC Metro.
What the hell is UDC?
Brad doesn't get taken back to his room. Instead he's put into a 5X10 cinder block cell. There's no bed, no chair, no video camera. There's no toilet. There is a bucket. The last thing Brad sees before the door is closed behind him is Ray rubbing his forehead.
He thought he was in solitary before; clearly he was wrong.
In the last three months, Brad's felt stress and confusion and anger. There have been moments of real interest and accomplishment; sometimes there's been companionship.
Brad hasn't felt despair in years.
It's just as crippling as he remembers.
The lights are kept on all the time in solitary.
Twice a day Brad is given bread and water.
He doesn't sleep. He eats a little.
He conjugates verbs in French.
Aimer. Détester. Tuer.
I love. You love. He loves.
I hate. You hate. He hates.
I kill. You kill. He kills.
By the fourth day, Brad is making up stories in French about Nicholas Sarkozy having dinner with Voltaire, Zola and Napoleon. He's dehydrated, wired with exhaustion and the door to his cell is almost two-thirds open by the time he registers the motion and gets to his feet.
He's expecting Ray. Or Godfather. Possibly more guards.
He finds himself face-to-face with Nate Fick instead.
"You?" Brad says in disbelief.
Nate's wearing a dark gray suit and blue oxford. His smile is brilliant. "I missed you, too," he says.
Brad's been training under the most strenuous circumstances possible. Last month, Ray started waking him up in the middle of the night for extra defensive weapons sessions with two specialists, Pappy and Stafford.
The only thing that stops Brad from shattering Nate's cheekbone with his fist is Nate's hand blocking him. One minute, Brad's upright and the next Nate's twisted his arm behind his back and swept his feet out from underneath him. The concrete is cool against Brad's cheek now that Nate has him face down on the ground. There's a suit-clad arm around his neck and a warm mouth by his ear.
Nate's wearing silver cufflinks.
Brad fights it. Tries to lever himself up, tries to roll Nate off. They collide with one of the cell walls, but Nate's hold doesn't lessen. Brad weighs more. He has all this training. He... can't get away.
He can feel it when Nate exhales on him. "Behave, Brad."
"Fuck you," Brad spits out, desperately trying to elbow Nate in the ribs. It's hard to talk with Nate's arm crushing his throat. "You left me here."
"I haven't left you anywhere; I've been watching everything you do. What do you think all these cameras are for?"
"You left me with these people," Brad rails. There are spots in his vision, he can't breathe and Nate's a dead weight on his back.
"These people have taken better care of you than anybody has in years; they see your potential. I see your potential."
"I don't need anybody to take care of me."
"That's exactly what you need."
"Fuck you, Nate," Brad repeats.
Nate looses something suspiciously close to a sigh. "Not if you don't behave."
Brad means to say something, but instead he passes out.
Two days later they let Brad out of solitary.
Four guards escort him back to his room. Between them Brad counts four M-16s, six Glock 9mm, three hunting knives, a throwing star, which Mike finally let Brad start using a week ago, and four tasers.
Fine, he gets the point.
It certainly explains why they didn't bother handcuffing him.
The door to Brad's room is already open, and standing in the corner, flipping through his copy of War and Peace, is Nate. He's wearing a chocolate brown suit and using his own business card to thumb through the pages. Brad assumes the card came from his book since Brad's been using it as a bookmark.
"You can go now," Nate says, dismissing the guards.
"Sir, we have orders from Godfather to stand watch."
"You can leave now," Nate repeats firmly.
The guards nod in unison and back out of the room. Brad can hear their footsteps retreat, but there's no beep of a keypad at the end of his hallway, no snick of a door closing.
They're loitering in the hallway. Brad wouldn't expect anything less at this point.
He looks around his room. The toilet is still there. So is the sink. Everything else is gone except for the book in Nate's hand.
"We're going on a trip," Nate says, closing the book and tossing it into a black duffel bag at his feet.
Brad narrows his eyes. "If you're going to kill me, how about you just get it over with?"
Nate looks mildly surprised. "Kill you? When did you get so melodramatic?"
"Since I met you I've been incapacitated by taser, choke hold, and needle. I've been beat with chairs, books, sticks, lamps, nearly lost three fingers and a toe to Mike's knife training, gotten third degree burns from Rudy and his fucking ropes and ruined my body with more MREs than an entire military platoon could stomach. Ask me something stupid again."
Nate lowers his eyes, rubbing at the collar of the thin sweater underneath his suit jacket. When he makes eye contact again, there's amusement on his face and he laughs low in the back of his throat. "Point made."
"I'd probably find you charming if I hadn't been shitting in a bucket and living on stale bread for the last six days," Brad says sourly. "Now what the fuck do you want?"
Nate crouches down and picks up the duffel bag. "C'mon," he says, walking past Brad smelling of sandalwood and apples.
Brad follows. It's not like he has anything better to do.
Brad's pretty sure he knows every corridor and pathway in Section, but when Nate takes a series of turns and doors Brad's never seen he has to reassess his assumptions. They come to a steel door that requires a retinal scan, a thumb print and voice recognition to open and Brad takes a deep breath.
He doesn't know what he thought he was going to see, but a series of offices with floor-to-ceiling windows isn't it. Sunlight streams in everywhere and Brad slows down to drink it in. It's like he's walked into heaven.
"Brad." Nate's tone is sharp; Brad snaps to attention. His desire not to fuck up is reinforced by the four guards still shadowing them.
They make a right down one hall, a left down another. At the third turn, a left, Nate ushers Brad into the only office Brad's seen so far that doesn't have glass walls. Except it's not an office, it's a bathroom. A very nice one. He won't be breaking out this way.
There's a large marble counter with a double basin below a mirror the size of a plasma screen TV. There's an enormous shower with frosted glass doors, a toilet that looks like a throne and a glass cabinet on legs that's full of bath products. Next to the cabinet is a stack of white fluffy towels that look thicker than the mattress Brad's been sleeping on in Section.
Brad turns to Nate, and Nate gives him a slight nod of the head. "Take a shower and clean yourself up." Nate points to a garment bag hanging on the wall. "And put on some real clothes. I can't take you out looking like this."
Brad studies Nate intently. "What's the catch?"
Nate scratches the side of his neck. "There's no catch: you smell, I'm fixing it," he says, turning on his heel and heading for the door.
Brad waits for it. There has to be something. For months he's been treated like property, like a soldier; you don't start treating soldiers like people for no reason.
Nate stops with his hand on the door. "I'm going to try and make this better. Don't let me regret it."
Brad stares at the closed door long after Nate's gone and then he goes to the cabinet and pulls out several of everything. He strips off his clothes, turns the water to scalding hot and washes his hair three times, scrubs his skin until it turns red.
He jerks off with his eyes on the ceiling. He knows Nate's watching him from somewhere. He can't believe he didn't realize that before now.
After Brad climbs out of the shower, he wraps himself in a towel and studies his reflection in the mirror. Six days locked away haven't done him any good, but that's nothing compared to being in Section for the last few months. He's pale. And thin. He's lean though; he can see every rib, draw lines based on his muscle definition. He's never been in shape like this before. There is not an ounce of fat, not a hint of beer or Cheetos.
He looks like a fighter.
This is what they've made him.
He goes back to the cabinet and checks the inventory. There's an electric razor and a set of clippers. There are also several packages of disposable razors. His mouth twists into a grin and he looks up at the ceiling. "Is this your way of saying you trust me?" he asks, waving the razors at the overhead lights.
Obviously there's no reply, but Brad knows that Nate's somewhere nearby with that little half-smile on his lips.
Brad's hair has grown in from when it was shaved, but he's become sort of partial to the buzz cut. The clippers are pretty user-friendly even though Brad's not used to shaving his own head. After he's done with his hair, he wastes a entire travel-sized container of shaving cream shaving his face, and then he climbs back into the shower and washes himself again.
The knock finally comes when Brad's straightening the lapels on his black suit jacket. "Yeah?"
The door opens and Nate glances around the corner. "My sisters don't take this long," he says, clearly diverted. "And there are three of them."
Brad turns around and presents himself for inspection. "Let's see how long they take when you put them in solitary for six days."
Nate gives a wry grin. "Touché."
Brad stands at attention as Nate walks around him, picking off invisible lint and making approving noises. When he's done he stops in front of Brad, sucking on his lower lip.
It's distracting.
"I'm taking you away for a while," Nate says.
"Yeah, I think you mentioned that."
Nate's expression turns hard. "If you try to run, I will shoot you, Brad. Don't think otherwise."
Brad tugs at the collar on his black button-down. "Aren't you supposed to be building my trust?"
Nate's eyes crease at the corners. "I'm taking you away, aren't I?"
Part II