Chapter 3

I knew where I would find the little dickhead. As rare as it is for the kid to lose his shit, this isn't the first time. And I knew where he would go to cool down. We all had our own nooks and corners in the Grand that we had claimed over the years. A place to escape to for our very sanity. Gordon's spot was a square little block in the middle of the metal tubing roof vents on top of the Grand; sandwiched in between the hot-tub gardens. I'd found him there more than once during his turbulent teen years before we agreed to train him as a hunter, and it's where I find him right now. Only he's not alone.

Evie, the girl we had rescued on our last mission, and who in turn had saved us from the horde of leeches, is with him. Her dark head is close to his red one as they whisper urgently back and forth. Seeing them together doesn't surprise me. They've been thick as thieves since we’d returned to the Grand. A friendship formed from familiarity and age. What does surprise me, however, is their intent conversation. I try to sneak up on them so I can overhear. I'm not above eavesdropping. You can find out a lot of interesting things that way. But Evie's dog, Scruff, is also squeezed into the tight spot with them, and he tattles on my approach with a slight bark of welcome. They look up, guilt written on their faces like I'd caught them red handed. Question is what did I catch them at?

"You following me, Bix?" Gordo asks, anger flushing his cheeks.

I nod my head, not even bothering to lie. "Yup." I slide across the tube and swing my legs over, jumping into the confined space with them. Scruff greets me by pressing his wet nose into my outstretched hand, but the boy and girl don't seem to be near as happy to see me. "What are you two planning? And don't bother to tell me nothing because I've never seen two guiltier faces."

Gordon sticks his chin out at me in defiance and crosses his arms. "We're not planning anything. I'm too angry to plan anything. I can't believe you guys didn't stick up for me down there. I've trained and worked hard to become one of you, and now the team that I've had nothing but respect for just crammed me up the ass. I thought for sure you at least would have my back, Bix."

Oh boy. He's really pissed and not holding back on the barbs, either. And really, can I blame him? Every single word he just said is true.

"Sorry, kid, but you gotta realize this is no ordinary mission. Hell, we have no idea what we're going to find out there. It's way too dangerous for you. It's way too dangerous for us, but not like we got a choice. You do. You don't need to stick your neck out for this. Like Coop said, you'll be much more useful here helping to protect the wall."

I thought my line of argument sounded pretty convincing, but Gordon sniffs in disdain.

"Please, don't add insult to injury by trying to tell me how dangerous it is out there. I've faced plenty danger with the group, and I've always held my own. Denying me the right to go is bullshit, and you know it."

"Take that up with your big brother. He was the one who said no. It's not up to me."

"And another line of bullshit. He would have caved if you guys insisted. But nope...you all left me hanging like some unwanted trout."

I grin at his analogy, but his scowl grows bigger at my amusement. Covering my budding smile with my hand and faking a cough, I try again.

"I'm really sorry, Gordo. I didn't realize you'd be this upset. We didn't mean to offend you. We really are just trying to look out for you. But bottom line, you're not going this time. May as well get that out of your head. You and Evie will be much more useful here."

The black-haired girl looks up at me with a baleful glare. "Leave me out of this. I think you guys gave poor Gordie the shaft after all he's done with you. Shame on you."

I do a double take at her accusation. The girl's barely said boo since she’s been here. Where the hell did that snark come from? And damn good snark too. Wonder where she picked that up?

"Anyway," I say, shaking my head and looking away from Evie. "Decision is made and nothing you can do about it. You may as well stop sulking like a child. So, tell me you're over it, and you'll do whatever Cooper asks you to do to help out around here while we're gone."

Gordon stares at me, arms crossed, and I think he's going to argue with me again. But then the anger abates somewhat in his eyes, and he shrugs in defeat.

"Okay. You win, but on one condition. You guys do what I've been bugging you to do ever since we got back from our mission. Then and only then, will I let this go."

"Oh for Pete's sake..." I roll my eyes. "This again? Seriously? I'm going to tell you again...it's a stupid fucking idea. Why you want us to do such an asinine thing, Gordo? You want the ravagers to laugh themselves to death if they ever capture us and see it?"

"And that's a bad thing, how?" he persists. “Besides, you guys owe me after that stunt you all pulled earlier—stabbing me in the back. You keep saying I'm one of you? Well, this will prove it.”

I open my mouth to respond, but I have no valid argument. He's right.

"Well played," I admit with a frown, and he grants me a lopsided grin at my admission. Sighing, I run a hand over my shaved head. "Okay. Bring it back up to the guys. Not saying they'll agree, mind you. But if you do it tonight at our poker game, and after they've had a few nips of Jonesy's brew, they may be a bit more agreeable."

"Yes!" He pumps his fist in the air in victory. "It's going to be so cool; you just wait and see. You guys will love it."

* * *

The pain is excruciating! The needle poking into my barely healed scar tissue and jackhammering off my shoulder blade feels like someone rubbing my skin off with sandpaper. I bite my lip to hold in my cries as the instrument of torture digs in again, and I so badly want to kick Jonesy right in the balls for putting me through this. But I don't. I can't blame him. This is Gordon's fault.

"You can do this, Bix," Luke says, wincing as I nearly crush his hand in mine.

"There's a lot of blood. I didn't think there would be blood involved. I don't know if I can do this," Gordon croaks on the other side of me, and I glare at him sideways in irritation.

"Oh, no. This was your freakin' idea. You're not backing out...ow! Jonesy, you fucking twat-waffle. You giving me a tat or skinning me alive?"

Jonesy's only response is to snort loudly in my ear. A cloud of fetid smoke from the cigarette stuck between his lips encompasses me in a haze. I cough and jerk to the side, causing the needle to dig painfully into my shoulder once more.

"Jesus," I groan as sweat beads my forehead. I don't remember my last tat being this painful.

"Told you it was too soon to ink over this scar," Jonesy says, oblivious to my pain as he keeps digging into my back. "But you're a stubborn twit."

"I can't do it," Gordon groans again.

I send him my most baleful glare. "Don't even think about backing out now. This was your great idea. You were the one nagging us to ink a group name so you could be ‘one of us’."

"Yeah, but you were the one who talked the rest of us into it," Luke intervenes in a dry voice, and I switch my glare to him.

"That was hours ago, dickhead, and I was drinking. Since when have the rest of you ever fucking listened to my suggestions?" I growl.

"Stop your whining, Bix," Dom throws over his shoulder as he admires a duplicate of my work-in-progress already inked onto his shoulder blade in the warped mirror.

"I actually like this," he says as he grins at his reflection. "For once, you idiots had a good idea."

I'm glad he thinks so. I'm questioning this whole tattoo thing right now. And so is Gordon, I'm assuming, since he's looking like he’s going to hurl any moment. Or maybe it's just the alcohol wearing off.

Why we even allowed him to drink is beyond me. We never did before. He just always seemed to be that little kid brother you didn’t want getting into your liquor stash. Maybe it was the guilt for not letting him go with us on the mission. Maybe it’s because our own inhibitions were lowered from drinking copious amounts of the poisonous spirits. But we let him drink along with the rest of us, deciding it would be good for him. Let Jonesy's wicked brew put hair on his chest and all that shit. Instead, we all wound up agreeing to his stupid idea of getting Avengers tattooed on our backs. Last time I get half in the bag with this bunch of A-holes.

"And done," Jonesy announces as he sits back on his bench and spits out the remnant of his chewed cigarette.

I sit up, wincing at my throbbing shoulder blade. Maybe getting the tat on top of the scar where the hybrid had sliced me open wasn't such a great idea after all. But then, who am I kidding? Nothing about this night is a great idea. I question again how we had let the little dipshit talk us into this.

"Okay, last one. Your turn, kid." Jonesy pops another shit-smelling stick between his lips and lights it up, squinting at Gordon through the haze of smoke.

The kid’s face grows even paler as his eyes jump from Jonesy's smirking, skull-like grin to the homemade needle sitting in the bowl of alcohol on the table next to me. A bowl now stained pink with my blood. I can see his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows in terror. What the hell?

"Come on, kid. You dropped 'em in puberty, now put 'em to use. Look how cool this is." I pull my t-shirt down, exposing my bare shoulder and Jonesy's new artwork. All it does is to cause him to gulp harder.

"Uh...that looks really bad. Like, really red and swollen. I read somewhere that ten to fifteen percent of tattoos become infected. Maybe I shouldn't take that chance. I mean, Cooper said we were running low on antibiotics. Why become a statistic, right?"

I give him my best “you gotta be fucking kidding me” look as I push my shirt back into place.

"No way, Iron Man. Now get your butt over here and get Avengers tattooed on your shoulder before I leave my boot imprinted on your ass.”

Luke chuckles at my threat. “Leave him be, Bix. If he's changed his mind, that's okay.”

“Uh... no it isn't,” I argue, vacating the table and pointing to it with a scowl on my face. “Sit, Boo-Boo. You're doing this. If we're going to run the chance of getting laughed at for being bike-riding, superhero-tattooed geeks, then you're going to be included as well.”

Gordon's pale face stares back in defiance. I change tactics.

“Maybe Coop was right in denying you the right to go with us,” I say softly. “If you can't even handle a little tattoo, then there's no way in hell you're ready to go outside the city. Was he right, kid? You too chicken shit?”

I can tell the mocking ooooohs coming from the rest of our group at my taunt has the desired effect, and the boy's cheeks infuse with angry color.

“I ain't no chicken shit,” he huffs at me as he brushes by, slamming me with his body. He jumps up on the table, baring his thin shoulder with intent.

“Do it, Jonesy,” he barks, still staring me down.

Jonesy shakes his bald, inked head and mutters, “Fuckin' hunters,” under his breath. He picks up the makeshift needle and bottle of India ink.

“That's the spirit, Gordo,” Cal shouts at him from across the room and pointing one of his crutches his way. “Even if we can't go with our group, we can still be one of them.”

“Show 'em what you're made of, kid.” Badger grins and raises his glass of liquid gut rot in a toast of respect. I didn't even realize he was still drinking. My stomach rolls in aversion as he downs the glass in one gulp. I never did understand how Badger's thin, wiry frame could hold more liquor than the rest of us combined.

“For fuck’s sake, stop being a wuss and do it already.” Even Dom is offering his own form of encouragement to the best of his ability.

“Gord-o! Gord-o! Gord-o!” Cal starts the chant and the rest of us join in, pumping our fists the louder we get. Jonesy rolls his eyes but continues to wait, poised at the ready with the tools of torture. Gordon puffs his chest up at our encouragement and sets his shoulders.

“You ready now?” The bald man asks in a bored voice.

The young ginger nods. “I'm ready.”

“Okay.” Jonesy dips the needle in the ink and places it against Gordon's shoulder, piercing the skin. The kid's roar of pain pushes back against our encouraging chant like a water hose on a crowd of protestors.

“HOLY DIPSHIT IN A BUCKET!”

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think that's one of Iron Man's catch phrases.