Toy Soldiers: On The Way (R)
Summary: The way Billy always heard it, your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die.
Notes: For prompt 10, "years." Movie counterpoint, so if you haven't seen the movie, this probably won't make sense.
ON THE WAY
*
The way Billy always heard it, your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die. They're full of it. It's not a flash.
He lowers the trapdoor carefully so it won't slam shut -- he doesn't think anyone's out in the cafeteria besides the terrorists they knocked out, but he can't take the chance. Then he grabs the rolling shelves and drags them over to stand on top of it, haphazard. Doesn't need to be perfect, just normal-looking. Cali's never been in here. He doesn't know exactly what it looks like. And it's up to Billy to keep him from looking too close and realizing that something might be wrong.
Five years old, standing in the kitchen of his grandparents' house with Gramma Tepper, trying to stir the cookie dough. She's helping him, because they've just added more flour and the spoon doesn't want to move. He stops for a second to glare at the dough, then reaches out and grabs a bit of dough. Maybe it's good enough and they don't need to stir it any more.
Gramma slaps the back of his hand. "Not yet. Finish stirring first."
Billy sighs and picks up the spoon again.
He's got one of their guns in his hand. It feels fake, too light, like they made it of plastic instead of metal. How the fuck is he supposed to use this? He's never shot anything except the really fake guns they sell with Nintendo, "Duck Hunt" and that kind of shit. Those guns don't have any recoil. Those guns can't get away from you and leave you open to someone who knows how to shoot.
Jesus fucking Christ. He can't think like that, he'll be sick. He hears the door slam open in the cafeteria, and goes to the kitchen door to peer through the window. Cali's here. Alone.
Eleven years old, first and last time he goes with his parents to a legal office. Something about the custody. Lawyer's office? Judge's chambers? He's not even sure why he's here: he's never heard of a kid needing to be there when the judge rules on custody.
His parents start out polite. Cold, but polite. They don't say anything to Billy. Then his father says something about a remarriage clause, and "another mother for Billy," and his mother snaps and starts yelling. His father yells back. The guy behind the desk -- judge, lawyer, whatever -- listens to them, and rubs his temples like his head hurts as much as Billy's does.
Billy slides down in his chair and wonders how to get out of here.
Cali looks around, face contorting. "Luis! Jorge!"
No response, but Cali doesn't wait for one. Billy glances over quickly: the guy he hit with a frying pan is safely dragged behind the counter, not visible from the door. All he'll have to do is keep Cali from coming too far into the kitchen.
He wonders, a little bit, what's going on outside the kitchen. He's heard helicopters, and gunfire. The army must already be here. Who's left, besides Cali? Why hasn't he just blown them up?
Fourteen years old, tail end of his freshman year. He's on probation for the third time: if he's caught breaking it again, he'll be thrown out of school even if he passed all his classes.
His roommate, a short guy named Larry who always looks worried, watches him change into a t-shirt. "You shouldn't," he says.
"So?" Billy says.
"If you get caught --"
"So I won't get caught," Billy says with a grin. "I'll bring you back ice cream!" And he's out the door, running across the soccer field like he's racing the wind, down to the town to get ice cream that always tastes better than the stuff they serve in the cafeteria.
"Jorge!" Cali comes to the door, pushes it open. Billy slides back so he's a little further behind the door, watching Cali as well as he can through the window that's still between them. Cali's got a handgun: the end of it pokes out beyond the edge of the door. Billy lowers the gun, the fake-feeling gun, and aims it at Cali as well as he can through the door, bracing it with both hands. He can't think of what he's doing, what he's about to do.
He doesn't have to. Cali stands there with the door open for a second, looking straight ahead, ignoring the rest of the kitchen, then turns away. Billy lets the gun fall: Jesus, he was all panicked for not--
Cali slams the door open, slamming Billy back against the wall. Head slammed against the wall, back slammed against the wall (again, second time in ten minutes): he's crumbled half to the floor by the time Cali comes around the door again and kicks away the gun, yelling to "get up!" and hauling him up by his collar when he doesn't instantly obey.
The guys -- the other students -- are safe, Billy thinks through his daze.
He isn't.
He really is going to die.
Sixteen years old, walking into the dorm room where he'll be living for the next two months. Billy knows he'll have a roommate -- they could get up to way too much shit if they were allowed singles -- but he's expecting a loser of a guy, because only losers take summer school.
There's a guy already sitting on one of the beds, flipping through a magazine. He looks up and tosses aside his magazine as Billy comes in. "Hey," he says.
Billy manages a, "Hi." He recognizes this guy. This is the guy who gave him the school tour -- what's his name -- Joey Trotta. Billy liked him. Likes him.
"Need any help with your stuff?"
"Nah," Billy tells him, making up his mind in a snap. "Lemme just get my stuff up here." Deliberate half-second pause. "I might need some help hiding it later."
Joey laughs, and Billy manages not to laugh too, out of relief. If this works out, holy shit, the things he could do.
There are two other Columbians coming down the stairs when Cali drags Billy out of the cafeteria into the front hall. Nobody coming after them that Billy can see, but there's the rattle of gunfire in the background constantly, and soldiers - guys in all black with guns -- down the hall. "Hold your fire!" one of them yells. "He's got a hostage!"
The gunfire stops, but they're still backing up, while the guys in black follow them, running from cover point to cover point. Billy looks away so he won't stare at the guns all pointed in his direction, guns that won't fire because he's the hostage, this isn't his fault. He can't breathe, and it's not because of the grip Cali has around his throat. One of the terrorists runs past Billy, maybe to open the door of wherever they're going so they won't just back into it and trap themselves so they can all die together.
Fall of junior year, running headlong down a corridor where they're not supposed to be. Billy spots a door and tries it. It's open! He and Joey dive through it, and close it just in time: Billy hears footsteps run past outside, and fade away.
He leans against the door to try and catch his breath. Beside him, Joey flips on the light. They're in some kind of maintenance room. There's another door on the other side of the room, and Billy can hear the hum of machinery.
"You have it?" he asks.
Joey nods and pats his pocket. He's still half out of breath too, grinning at Billy, and for a heartbeat Billy really, really wants to kiss him.
The headmaster's office. The two other terrorists dive behind the receptionist's desk, while Cali moves toward the door into the headmaster's office itself, shouting an order to them in Spanish. As Cali shoulders open the door, the gunfire starts up again. Cali doesn't stop moving, even as he fires to help cover his men, cover himself, Billy doesn't know. He counts the shots: five. How many rounds does a handgun hold? If Billy started struggling, would he be able to escape?
Did the chip switch work?
Does he care?
Billy's the one on his back, legs in the air. He asked for it. Eventually Joey will turn over for him -- Joey told him that, back when they first actually talked about this, about what they were doing and what they wanted to do, and it's not like that hasn't fuelled a fantasy or two. But this time, it's Billy on his back, taking Joey inside.
But it's Joey who's shaking, like he can't breathe, and Billy who's stroking his arm, whispering, "It's okay," and "God, you feel so good," and "Love you, oh Jesus, I love you."
That makes Joey catch his breath, almost like a laugh. "I know," he whispers back, and pushes home. "Love you too."
Cali keeps backing away, gun still aimed at the door as if he expects them to bust the door down any second. Billy can see the orange wires out of the corner of his eye. Maybe that's why Cali dragged Billy here instead of just pressing the button: maybe the detonator has a really short range. Cali's breathing harshly, not just out of breath but like he's sobbing. He rips off the cover of the detonator button that Billy hadn't even realized was there.
Now, Billy thinks. Oh God.
As if in response, Cali mutters something in Spanish -- all Billy can catch is the word "Papa" -- and jams the button with his thumb.
Yesterday. Joey cleaning the cuts on Billy's back, while the others watch: the near-miss means that not even Snuffy is gloating. Billy sees the headmaster coming over to them, followed by one of the Columbians. He bites his tongue.
Snuffy doesn't. "Headmaster," he murmurs, and Joey stops, helps Billy roll his shirt back down, then touches him on the arm. He's got Billy's back. They're together.
The plane rotor starts up -- holy shit, it worked! Billy watches as the plane flies straight up into the ceiling, then crashes back down onto the floor. Then Cali spins him around with an inarticulate scream, and jams the gun under Billy's ear.
"I'm sorry," Billy says, because he can't think of anything else to say, and waits for the bullet.
Coming, Joey.
-end-
Notes: For prompt 10, "years." Movie counterpoint, so if you haven't seen the movie, this probably won't make sense.
ON THE WAY
*
The way Billy always heard it, your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die. They're full of it. It's not a flash.
He lowers the trapdoor carefully so it won't slam shut -- he doesn't think anyone's out in the cafeteria besides the terrorists they knocked out, but he can't take the chance. Then he grabs the rolling shelves and drags them over to stand on top of it, haphazard. Doesn't need to be perfect, just normal-looking. Cali's never been in here. He doesn't know exactly what it looks like. And it's up to Billy to keep him from looking too close and realizing that something might be wrong.
Five years old, standing in the kitchen of his grandparents' house with Gramma Tepper, trying to stir the cookie dough. She's helping him, because they've just added more flour and the spoon doesn't want to move. He stops for a second to glare at the dough, then reaches out and grabs a bit of dough. Maybe it's good enough and they don't need to stir it any more.
Gramma slaps the back of his hand. "Not yet. Finish stirring first."
Billy sighs and picks up the spoon again.
He's got one of their guns in his hand. It feels fake, too light, like they made it of plastic instead of metal. How the fuck is he supposed to use this? He's never shot anything except the really fake guns they sell with Nintendo, "Duck Hunt" and that kind of shit. Those guns don't have any recoil. Those guns can't get away from you and leave you open to someone who knows how to shoot.
Jesus fucking Christ. He can't think like that, he'll be sick. He hears the door slam open in the cafeteria, and goes to the kitchen door to peer through the window. Cali's here. Alone.
Eleven years old, first and last time he goes with his parents to a legal office. Something about the custody. Lawyer's office? Judge's chambers? He's not even sure why he's here: he's never heard of a kid needing to be there when the judge rules on custody.
His parents start out polite. Cold, but polite. They don't say anything to Billy. Then his father says something about a remarriage clause, and "another mother for Billy," and his mother snaps and starts yelling. His father yells back. The guy behind the desk -- judge, lawyer, whatever -- listens to them, and rubs his temples like his head hurts as much as Billy's does.
Billy slides down in his chair and wonders how to get out of here.
Cali looks around, face contorting. "Luis! Jorge!"
No response, but Cali doesn't wait for one. Billy glances over quickly: the guy he hit with a frying pan is safely dragged behind the counter, not visible from the door. All he'll have to do is keep Cali from coming too far into the kitchen.
He wonders, a little bit, what's going on outside the kitchen. He's heard helicopters, and gunfire. The army must already be here. Who's left, besides Cali? Why hasn't he just blown them up?
Fourteen years old, tail end of his freshman year. He's on probation for the third time: if he's caught breaking it again, he'll be thrown out of school even if he passed all his classes.
His roommate, a short guy named Larry who always looks worried, watches him change into a t-shirt. "You shouldn't," he says.
"So?" Billy says.
"If you get caught --"
"So I won't get caught," Billy says with a grin. "I'll bring you back ice cream!" And he's out the door, running across the soccer field like he's racing the wind, down to the town to get ice cream that always tastes better than the stuff they serve in the cafeteria.
"Jorge!" Cali comes to the door, pushes it open. Billy slides back so he's a little further behind the door, watching Cali as well as he can through the window that's still between them. Cali's got a handgun: the end of it pokes out beyond the edge of the door. Billy lowers the gun, the fake-feeling gun, and aims it at Cali as well as he can through the door, bracing it with both hands. He can't think of what he's doing, what he's about to do.
He doesn't have to. Cali stands there with the door open for a second, looking straight ahead, ignoring the rest of the kitchen, then turns away. Billy lets the gun fall: Jesus, he was all panicked for not--
Cali slams the door open, slamming Billy back against the wall. Head slammed against the wall, back slammed against the wall (again, second time in ten minutes): he's crumbled half to the floor by the time Cali comes around the door again and kicks away the gun, yelling to "get up!" and hauling him up by his collar when he doesn't instantly obey.
The guys -- the other students -- are safe, Billy thinks through his daze.
He isn't.
He really is going to die.
Sixteen years old, walking into the dorm room where he'll be living for the next two months. Billy knows he'll have a roommate -- they could get up to way too much shit if they were allowed singles -- but he's expecting a loser of a guy, because only losers take summer school.
There's a guy already sitting on one of the beds, flipping through a magazine. He looks up and tosses aside his magazine as Billy comes in. "Hey," he says.
Billy manages a, "Hi." He recognizes this guy. This is the guy who gave him the school tour -- what's his name -- Joey Trotta. Billy liked him. Likes him.
"Need any help with your stuff?"
"Nah," Billy tells him, making up his mind in a snap. "Lemme just get my stuff up here." Deliberate half-second pause. "I might need some help hiding it later."
Joey laughs, and Billy manages not to laugh too, out of relief. If this works out, holy shit, the things he could do.
There are two other Columbians coming down the stairs when Cali drags Billy out of the cafeteria into the front hall. Nobody coming after them that Billy can see, but there's the rattle of gunfire in the background constantly, and soldiers - guys in all black with guns -- down the hall. "Hold your fire!" one of them yells. "He's got a hostage!"
The gunfire stops, but they're still backing up, while the guys in black follow them, running from cover point to cover point. Billy looks away so he won't stare at the guns all pointed in his direction, guns that won't fire because he's the hostage, this isn't his fault. He can't breathe, and it's not because of the grip Cali has around his throat. One of the terrorists runs past Billy, maybe to open the door of wherever they're going so they won't just back into it and trap themselves so they can all die together.
Fall of junior year, running headlong down a corridor where they're not supposed to be. Billy spots a door and tries it. It's open! He and Joey dive through it, and close it just in time: Billy hears footsteps run past outside, and fade away.
He leans against the door to try and catch his breath. Beside him, Joey flips on the light. They're in some kind of maintenance room. There's another door on the other side of the room, and Billy can hear the hum of machinery.
"You have it?" he asks.
Joey nods and pats his pocket. He's still half out of breath too, grinning at Billy, and for a heartbeat Billy really, really wants to kiss him.
The headmaster's office. The two other terrorists dive behind the receptionist's desk, while Cali moves toward the door into the headmaster's office itself, shouting an order to them in Spanish. As Cali shoulders open the door, the gunfire starts up again. Cali doesn't stop moving, even as he fires to help cover his men, cover himself, Billy doesn't know. He counts the shots: five. How many rounds does a handgun hold? If Billy started struggling, would he be able to escape?
Did the chip switch work?
Does he care?
Billy's the one on his back, legs in the air. He asked for it. Eventually Joey will turn over for him -- Joey told him that, back when they first actually talked about this, about what they were doing and what they wanted to do, and it's not like that hasn't fuelled a fantasy or two. But this time, it's Billy on his back, taking Joey inside.
But it's Joey who's shaking, like he can't breathe, and Billy who's stroking his arm, whispering, "It's okay," and "God, you feel so good," and "Love you, oh Jesus, I love you."
That makes Joey catch his breath, almost like a laugh. "I know," he whispers back, and pushes home. "Love you too."
Cali keeps backing away, gun still aimed at the door as if he expects them to bust the door down any second. Billy can see the orange wires out of the corner of his eye. Maybe that's why Cali dragged Billy here instead of just pressing the button: maybe the detonator has a really short range. Cali's breathing harshly, not just out of breath but like he's sobbing. He rips off the cover of the detonator button that Billy hadn't even realized was there.
Now, Billy thinks. Oh God.
As if in response, Cali mutters something in Spanish -- all Billy can catch is the word "Papa" -- and jams the button with his thumb.
Yesterday. Joey cleaning the cuts on Billy's back, while the others watch: the near-miss means that not even Snuffy is gloating. Billy sees the headmaster coming over to them, followed by one of the Columbians. He bites his tongue.
Snuffy doesn't. "Headmaster," he murmurs, and Joey stops, helps Billy roll his shirt back down, then touches him on the arm. He's got Billy's back. They're together.
The plane rotor starts up -- holy shit, it worked! Billy watches as the plane flies straight up into the ceiling, then crashes back down onto the floor. Then Cali spins him around with an inarticulate scream, and jams the gun under Billy's ear.
"I'm sorry," Billy says, because he can't think of anything else to say, and waits for the bullet.
Coming, Joey.
-end-