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It is quiet in the hotel, which is just how recently-hired Richard likes it on first jobs. It’s his first security mission under his new boss V, an abrasive blue-haired Russian who is loud but pays well enough that Richard is willing to deal with being yelled at all the time. V’s better than his old boss, who did not follow wage laws and met an unfortunate amputation-related demise—Richard will admit he’s not unhappy about that, considering it was months before his contract would’ve ended, so he could escape that shithole way sooner than he expected.
Hey, Third District, okay? He’ll take any job he can find, no matter how crappy.
Richard glances to his left where a stockier henchman is leaning against the wall and looking casual. There haven’t been signs of any danger or intruders for the past three hours. His new job seems cushy. Maybe he can bring magazines next time and just cruise through his shifts.
The henchman catches his gaze.
“Sup. ‘M Yosef.” The guy tips his Gatsby cap and holds out a hand.
“Richard,” he returns, shaking Yosef’s hand. He’s making friends! His (overdosed) mother would be so proud. “This is my first job with V.”
“Neat. Do you like the uniforms?”
Richard snorts and smiles, amused. When he accepted the job, the office guy looked at his papers and handed him a white button-down and black slacks with some dark suspenders. It was unexpected and quite Dickensian, in his honest opinion. V’s guards wouldn’t look too out of place at a neo-ska concert or an electro swing dance night.
“Very, eh… retro,” Richard settled on. “But comfortable. It’s nice of V to give us free clothes.”
“Heh! Least you don’t have to wear this flitty hat. Last assignment when V came to dismiss us, he shot a guy who took his off ‘cause it was too hot…” Yosef says with a grimace. “You shouldn’t call the boss his actual name, by the way. He doesn’t like it.”
“...Oh.” Richard turned away from Yosef and faced the wall, properly briefed now. “Thanks for telling me.”
“Yup.”
Well, he can handle that. He might have to go get extra changes of his uniform. Yosef is right though; at least he doesn’t have to wear that flitty hat, which makes Yosef look like a daft and gallivant newsboy. Richard gets enough silly looks already because of his impeccable pompadour, thank you, he doesn’t need some dumb hat covering up that beautiful coiff.
Yosef is not very conversational for the next few hours. The hotel remains quiet until Richard speaks up again.
“So, Yosef…” he begins. Is this a weird question? How is he supposed to phrase this? What if Yosef tosses him to the ground with his strangely muscular arms and beats him to death with hammers?
…What? Is Richard unmedicated right now? That’s a stupid thing to think.
“Yup?”
“How do I move up the ranks here? I mean, I don’t want to get paid twelve credits an hour for the rest of my life…” he trails off.
“Lookin’ to become a bigshot, huh?” Yosef chuckles. “I like you, Richard. You’re a real go-getter. Twelve credits an hour is nice for New Mecca. Be happy with what ya got.”
“I know!” Richard exclaims, putting his hands up. “No, I know that. It’s loads better than my old gig. But I actually want to get out of New Mecca someday—”
“And see the world? Travel? Wife and kids? Heh!” Yosef rolls his eyes at him. Richard feels slightly glum, but a common grunt like Yosef can’t dampen his spirits that easily.
“I have it all planned out. Finland… the happiest country in the world, known for saunas and Moomins. And I’m going to live there.” As he says this, he waves both arms in front of Yosef’s face, as if to wow him. If it isn’t clear yet, Richard is a big dreamer, and his big dream is to learn suomi and emigrate to Finland.
“I’m happy for ya, friend… but aren’t the Moomins Swedish?”
“See, that’s a common misconception. Moomin media was originally written in Swedish, but the author is actually Finnish and published her comics in Finland.” Richard says excitedly. He’s very happy at the opportunity to explain something about Moomins.
“Ah. Alright. You got big plans, Richard. I believe in ya,” Yosef smiles mockingly in a way that makes Richard think Yosef definitely does not believe in him at all. “I guess the boss’ security detail has two daydreamers on the team. You know Strong Terry?”
“Strong Terry?” Richard is intrigued. “Who’s that? And of course I don’t, this is my first job.”
“Strong Terry is one of the biggest guys here. He wears the same uniform as me, but he painted a little… a little animal on his cap. He wants to be an artist.”
“An artist.” Richard echoes.
“Yup. An artist, even though he can crush a man’s skull in between his forearms,” Yosef gives him a thin smile. Clearly Strong Terry is pretty famous. “The boss thinks he’s too valuable to let go. You can’t find another guy as strong as him in New Mecca.”
He nods. “Are Strong Terry’s paintings any good, at least?”
“Oh, he’s amazing. But he hardly ever shows anyone. The most I saw was a corner of something he stashed in an empty room during a job, ‘cause he didn’t want it to get damaged by gunfire.”
“He seems like a sweet dude.”
“Sure, Richard. Just don’t tell him that unless you wanta die. We all like him but he’s the scariest of us all.” Yosef sighs and stretches. Then he goes back to leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
The rest of their shift passes in silence.
The sun starts to peek out from the horizon as he walks home, sore from standing in the same place for nine hours. His ankles hurt. As he walks, he evaluates his new job.
Coworkers? 8/10. Yosef was cool but a little rude about his life goals. Boss? 6/10. Scary (remember how he shot a guy for not wearing a hat?) but not unexpected for this line of work. The actual work? 10/10. Aside from trying not to fall asleep, his hotel shift was a piece of cake.
Richard hopes he can meet Strong Terry sometime soon. Dreamers should stick together, and Strong Terry actually sounds like the kind of person he’d like to hang out with. And Strong Terry could teach him how to become as strong and well-known as he is. If Richard becomes yolked and learns how to crush a man’s skull between his forearms, just like Strong Terry, he’ll probably get a raise. And the promise of steady work until he discreetly flees the nation to beautiful Finland (known not only for saunas and the Moomins, but also for having the cleanest air in the world).
The entrance to his apartment building appears in the distance. He passes through the gate and directs a casual nod to the receptionist, who appears to be struggling with today’s cross-doku (New Mecca’s famed crossword and sudoku combination, which is one of the only good things it's known for. Some bad things New Mecca is known for is overdose-related deaths and the highest rate of water supply contamination by a large margin. Damn you, coolant! And fiberglass! And lead! And every other thing that renders tap water unusable every other week!).
Richard takes the stairs two at a time down to his level. New Mecca has a lot of underground apartment complexes, which became popular during the Cromag War as bomb-safe housing. What he likes about them is that the rent is much cheaper than an above-ground complex with windows. The front door is unlocked in record time and he collapses on his futon.
His clock tells him it’s seven-fifteen. He wants to sleep (Richard is a guy who goes “honk shoo”), but instead opens his fridge and boils some rice because he is hungry. When the rice is done he scoops half a can of cat food on top and seals away the other half in the fridge for later.
9Lives Meaty Pate is actually one of his favorite foods, but if anyone asked he’d just tell them he eats it out of necessity because everything else is too damn expensive.
He sits down on his futon and watches television while he eats. Serial killer, okay. Juncture cleaned up the coolant contamination, that’s nice. Another bridge has collapsed, we were all expecting it. Same old Third District.
Richard gets up and changes out of his work clothes into a t-shirt that says “Finland” with a big heart over the flag and more comfortable pants. Then he dumps his empty rice-and-cat-food bowl into the sink and curls up on the futon. Snzzz.
A few more assignments go by uneventfully. His routine revolves around work now, which, as he initially thought, was quite easy. No one bothered to mess with V and every job was just waiting around. The one time someone trespassed into the area, they had already turned and ran away in the time it took for Richard to grab his crowbar off the ground. It seems like he’d picked the best employer around.
He gets assigned a job at Club Neon. It’s a riveting change of pace from all the quiet abandoned warehouses and empty storage lockers he’s been in for the past few months.
Richard gels up his pompadour, takes a Valium, and slings his trusty crowbar over his shoulder. While locking his door, he wonders if he’ll meet Strong Terry this time. Even after all this time, Strong Terry still occupies his mind. He really wants to befriend that guy. If he sees him…
A plan to impress Strong Terry into being his common henchman compadre until he can move to Finland. First, he needs to demonstrate he has skills that make him worthy of being Strong Terry’s companion. And then he needs to establish an emotional connection. And then he can move into the final phase of his plan: help Strong Terry become a full time painter, learn suomi , and move to the #1 milk drinking country in the world.
The thrum of Club Neon’s music spills onto the dark street, which is littered with partiers trying to sober up before going back inside. He nods at the bouncer at the front door and enters, pushing his way through the dancing crowds. DJ Electrohead is spinning tracks right now, which explains why the club is packed to bursting. Richard kind of wants to hit the floor himself.
A guard at the second floor door waves him in. He makes it to his post a few minutes before his shift actually starts. Once it hits eight o’ clock, another man strolls up to stand next to him, and Richard’s jaw drops.
Woah .
The guy is tall, way taller than Richard. His fists are the size of basketballs, and his shoulders are broad enough to rival a semi-truck. The first few buttons on his shirt are undone, probably to accommodate for his massive size . He quickly flicks his gaze back up to look at the guy’s square jaw and face, which is mostly shadowed by his Gatsby cap.
There’s only one person this guy could be.
“Are you Strong Terry?” Richard pipes up before he can stop himself. Shit . What a horrible first thing to say. He should be taking this slow and not scaring Strong Terry away.
To Richard’s relief, instead of beating him into a pulp and painting a pretty landscape with his blood, Strong Terry grins widely and claps him on the shoulder. He has very shiny crooked teeth.
“Yes I am, buddy!” His smile stretches from ear to ear. “And who might you be?”
Richard freezes. “Uh— well—” He scratches his neck with the nervousness of a man trying to rap his way through a hostage situation. “Rich. Ard. Richard. My name is Richard.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ard. You can call me Terry. I’m plenty strong without the name.”
“Yes,” he says. “I can. See that.”
What the fuck is he saying?
“Well, Richard, looks like you’re gonna be my guard buddy for the next six hours. Ain’t that nice?” Terry beams.
Richard nods in agreement. He doesn’t understand what Yosef and all the other goons were saying about Terry—the man seems more like a big fluffy dog than anything. A big deadly fluffy dog, but still. He’s so… jovial. He expected the strong, silent type, not this cheerful and good-humored giant of a man.
“Yeah, that’s great. I’m glad I finally got to know you in person.” Richard finally returns Terry’s unnerving smile.
“People talking lots about me?” Terry asks. He raises an eyebrow, which is barely visible underneath the shadow of his cap.
“Yes! Er, all good things though.”
“Good,” Terry rifles through his pockets and produces two cigarettes and a lighter. “You smoke?”
Richard nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
Terry puts both cigarettes in between his lips, which Richard finds odd. He doesn’t comment on it (again, this big fluffy dog can kill him in one bite) and watches, fascinated, as Terry brings the lighter up. Flick. He lights them both and hands one to Richard.
For some reason, Richard feels a little bit like a girl right now.
He brushes the thought away and breathes in. Maybe he should blow a cool smoke ring to impress Terry. Wait, no. If he fucks it up it’s going to be insanely embarrassing. He decides that this is enough and he’s probably been officially added to Strong Terry’s List of Cool Dudes to Hang Out With and Help to Move to Finland.
“So, Rich, where are you from?” Terry asks once they’ve smoked down their cigs a bit.
“Here,” he sighs. “New Mecca.”
“Man. That stinks for you. I only came here because I heard work was better in New Mecca. Now that I’ve been here for years… I really regret that choice, haha.” Terry’s laugh seems bitter. Regardless, the corners of his mouth are upturned in a smile.
“That sucks. I’m stuck here for the time being.” Richard frowns and takes a long drag. Finland…
“Yeah?” Terry turns to make eye contact with him. That’s scary. He should be called Scary Terry instead of Strong Terry. “You’d be crazy to try and make it out of New Mecca. This place is a death trap.”
“Actually…”
“Hm?”
“Er, nothing,” he says quickly. It’s too early to tell Terry about his Finland plan. He wants to slap himself for even wanting to say it so soon.
“Righty-o.” Terry turns away. The two of them smoke and enjoy the stillness for a while. Club Neon’s music drifts through the wall behind them.
Richard thinks the next time he meets Terry on an assignment, he ought to prod him about his dreams of becoming a painter, and once Terry tells him about that, Richard can share his dreams of moving to Finland.
A few hours pass by. Their cigarettes were stomped to dust a while ago. He finds the quietness with Terry enjoyable. Snzzz…
“Buddy!”
What! He snaps awake. Shit, did he really almost fall asleep on the job? If V were here to see that, he’d be dead on the floor for sure.
“Buddy, you should get more sleep. You’re lucky I noticed you dozing off…” Terry grumbles, patting him on the back. Richard coughs. He’s embarrassed. Falling asleep around Terry is super uncool.
“Yeah, sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I thought I had adjusted to my new schedule already.”
“Hey, I got a good idea that’ll keep you awake—” Terry keeps his hand on his back and shoulders him through the door on their right. He kneels down to grab two empty beer bottles off the ground. “Show me your throwing strength.”
“Terry, I dunno if this is a good idea…” he begins.
“No, don’t worry buddy, the boss never cares if I do this,” Terry walks them both to the end of the hallway. “There.” He points to the wall opposite of them, a good forty feet away.
“Well—”
“Are you too chicken to accept a challenge from Strong Terry?”
“No!” Richard shakes his head. “Of course not. I’m good at throwing, I just know you’ll probably win because you’re Strong Terry—”
“ Bawk bawk bawk ,” Terry snickers while flapping his arms like a bird. “Chicken.”
“Okay, be quiet, I’ll do it. I’ll go first.” Richard sighs. He rolls his eyes and grabs one of the bottles from Terry’s hands, eager to impress the other.
Wind up… step forward… throw!
The bottle barely clears half of the room and shatters pathetically in a million little glass pieces, which Richard guesses he and Terry will have to sweep up before they sign off. Terry shoots him an amused look and launches his bottle.
It sails majestically through the air. Light glints off of it like a shiny, spectacular gemstone. It traverses the length of the entire room and crashes against the opposite wall, breaking.
Terry pumps his hand in the air and whoops. He leans back, grins, all shiny crooked teeth again. His eyes, typically hidden by his cap, glint just like the bottle as he looks back at Richard.
“Hey, nice. I knew you’d win.” Richard says.
“Don’t get down, buddy.” Terry leans forward, regular again.
“I’m not,” he fires back, grinning as well. “Because this time I’m challenging you to something.”
Clearly Terry is a bit surprised. He doesn’t try to hide it.
“And what’s that, Rich?”
“People tell me I’m a pretty good dancer.”
Uhhh. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. Terry seems a bit pale, and his hand has found his cap and lowered it a bit to cover his eyes again. But a slight nod tells Richard otherwise.
“Sure. I can humor you, buddy, but prepare to be beaten again,” Terry says confidently. “We just have to be back here by five.”
“Gotcha.”
The two abandon their post and slip through the door Richard came in through at the beginning of their shift. He’s sure V won’t notice if the two of them hang out for a little while instead of working. Club Neon’s back area seems pretty overstocked with henchmen and the night has been exceedingly quiet, aside from DJ Electrohead’s bumpin’ tunes floating through from the other side of the building.
Out in the club area, the music is much louder. It courses through his body like a drug—once Richard hears a song he likes, he can’t help but get down to it.
“You ready?!” he shouts over the EDM.
Terry gives him a thumbs-up, obviously not wanting to shout to make himself heard. They hit the dancefloor and move into the throng of women with sparkly piercings and men with tight t-shirts. Dance, dance. We’re falling apart to halftime.
The lights shining above them shine brightly and flash with rapid, animal energy. Much to Richard’s delight, Terry actually seems to be having fun, with his eyes closed and his absolutely swole arms swinging around erratically. He’s not that bad of a dancer… but Richard is better, and he knows this.
House music is his thing . He is the dancing queen, young and sweet, just not seventeen. Call him Lady Gaga, because, uhh, just dance, spin that record baby. He wants to dance with somebody, with somebody who loves hi— wait, that one doesn’t work. There are a limited number of good songs that have dancing as a prominent motif, okay ?
After a few songs he opens his eyes and notices that Terry’s dancing has mellowed out a bit. Presumably he’s tired himself out, which is great because that means Richard is the clear winner.
Terry watches him execute some absolutely slick moves for a while. Richard grins. He’s having fun! This is the most fun he’s had in a long time! He never thought he’d find it with a work friend who calls him “buddy” all the time.
After even Richard begins to feel weary from busting it down, he grabs Terry by the arm, still feeling energized, and leads him off the dancefloor to the bathrooms, where they both can wash some sweat off of them and also go piss, because that’s what a bathroom is for.
They stand side by side in front of the mirror. Richard is patting his face with a damp paper towel, careful not getting any water in his exquisite and flawless pompadour. Terry simply splashes the water onto his face and wipes that and his neck afterwards with a paper towel. Richard leans against the sinks and smiles.
“You win, buddy.” Terry grunts.
“Heh. I knew I would,” Richard says smugly. He knows Terry’s derisive demeanor right now is just a silly act. “You put up a good fight though.”
“Thanks. You’re… a lot better at dancing than I thought you’d be.” Terry gets out slowly. His cap is over his eyes.
“You thought I’d be bad?”
“Not bad!” Terry exclaims. “Just not amazing at it. Your gangly limbs. You look more like a skinny bird than someone who can hold the attention of the entire crowd just by dancing.” He pokes Richard in the sternum.
“What?!”
“No offense.” he chuckles.
“You just say that because you were calling me a chicken earlier. I look just as capable as any other dancer…”
“With that ridiculous hair?”
Richard huffs. “It’s not ridiculous. It’s style. It’s not my fault you don’t have any.”
“I’m just yanking your chain. Your hair’s impressive, buddy,” Terry reaches for his shoulder and turns him around. “Let’s get back to our post.”
“Good idea.” he agrees and allows himself to be directed out of the bathroom. They step out and fall silent. What the hell…?
The dancefloor, squares still lighting up in time to the music, is covered in smears of blood. Bodies litter the sides. Gone are the sparkly pierced women and men in tight shirts. In their place is red viscera.
…dance, dance, dance, dance ‘till you’re dead.
Richard glances up at the dome where DJ Electrohead would be. Two shadowy figures—one of them DJ Electrohead, and the other one a taller person wielding a sword—are crouched in there. He turns away.
“Terry.”
Terry’s let go of his shoulder. His eyes are wide.
“Terry, we have to go. Terry!”
He shakes Terry back and forth to try and break him out of his trance. The man finally loosens from his shock and takes a deep breath, then (much to Richard’s surprise) scoops Richard up and hightails it down the stairs, sliding across the floor and ducking out of Club Neon.
Even the street outside is completely deserted. It’s nothing like the clusters of people smoking and chatting like earlier. Terry continues carrying him and jogs across the street, rounding the corner into an alleyway. It looks a lot safer than just hanging around outside Club Neon, where the anonymous swordsman could slice them to ribbons. A thought crosses his mind. New serial killer. The Dragon . It’s probably him, the profile fits…
“Terry, uh…”
Terry is casting worried looks out the alleyway at anything that moves. His breathing is haggard and his brows are furrowed in deep concern.
“Terry.”
“Yeah, Richard?”
“Put me down.”
“Oh,” Thump . Richard ungracefully drops to the ground like a sack of watermelons. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“...it’s okay. You just wanted to get away from there quickly.” Richard puts a (hopefully) comforting hand on Terry’s arm. Terry accepts it with what seems to be gratefulness. Terry is difficult to read sometimes with the top half of his face covered by his Gatsby cap.
“Just ten minutes ago, we were having fun… and then everyone was dead,” Terry says, leaden and grim-faced. “What if we hadn’t been in that bathroom?”
“Terry. Terry . It’s okay. We’re not dead, are we?”
“No. But what if we hadn’t been in that bathroom? We’d be dead right now.” He seems stricken. A dull gloom seeps over them. Terry is right, he realized. They’d be dead .
Richard allows himself to be hugged by a man that he met three hours ago. And he hugs back.
Terry insists on walking Richard home after they hide out in the alleyway for another hour.
“I just don’t want you to be murdered by The Dragon. At least if we stick together, we have a fighting chance against him.” Terry reasons.
Richard somewhat agrees with him, but the swordsman had cut through the crowds of almost a hundred people in record time. If he got approached by the Dragon, even with Terry by his side, they’d both surely die in some creatively sick and twisted way.
As they walk to Richard’s building, he feels a little bit like a girl again.
He invites Terry into his apartment. He can impress Terry with his cool poster choice (famous sandboarders and TV shows he enjoys) which will further his developing friendship with Terry.
Although, that might not be needed. It looks like after their near-death experience at Club Neon, Terry’s pretty much bonded to him like the big fluffy dog that he acts like sometimes.
Richard manages to find enough food in his fridge to make a meal that doesn’t involve 9Lives Meaty Pate and cooks for two. Yum, rice and boiled eggs. It’s not amazing but at least it’s not cat food. Terry mumbles a thanks, still quiet and a bit nervous from Club Neon, and takes the bowl.
They eat sitting a respectable distance from each other on the futon while watching the news. There’s already a report on the incident at Club Neon. Journalism works fast, he guesses.
The television confirms that it was indeed the work of The Dragon while showing blurry and censored footage of all the damages caused to the club. DJ Electrohead ended up murdered. A lot of clubgoers ran out but barely any survived due to a stampede.
Terry is silent. Richard decides not to talk and lets him stew in silence. He doesn’t even know what he’d say. Thanks for saving me? And carrying me like a girl? He doesn’t know.
He takes both of their bowls to the sink and rinses them with hot water. Then he retreats to the bathroom to change into his pajamas (again, the Finland shirt and the comfortable pants) and walks to the futon. He’s not sure whether he’s going to tell Terry to go back to his own home or whether he’s going to say they can just sleep sitting upright.
Terry glances at his shirt and purses his lips.
Oh no.
It’s too soon!
“Finland, buddy?”
“Er…” Richard swallows. Sits down.
“I’m not judging. I have a lifelong dream too. It’s just not the near-impossible chance of emigrating to a country that’s four thousand miles from New Mecca.” Terry says. He’s talkative again, which is good. Terry the Talkative.
“Finland is nice. I’m going to learn suomi and move there. They have saunas and Moomin.”
“Isn’t Moomin Swedish?”
Richard smiles. “A lot of people think that, but the Moomins are Finnish. The comics were originally published in the Swedish language, by a Finnish author, in the country of Finland. Her first language was Swedish.”
“That’s interesting,” Terry says. He seems genuinely invested in the Moomins which makes Richard unbelievably joyful. “Why Finland?”
Richard shrugs.
“They have the cleanest air in the world.”
“Fair ‘nuff.”
“What about you?” he asks. “What’s your dream?”
“I… want to be a painter,” Terry seems bashful. Like he’s embarrassed of it. A dusting of pink has found its way onto his face. “Don’t laugh.”
“Terry, no. That’s cool. Painting is cool.” Richard assures him. Painting is cool. Richard himself absolutely sucks at anything artistic. To create something with as much expression as a painting… yeah, that is super cool .
“Okay. My family always told me it was dumb, and that my hands are too big to even hold a paintbrush properly.”
Woah.
“What the hell?” Richard is appalled. “That’s a messed up thing to say to your son.”
“...thanks. It’s why I came to New Mecca. I wanted to get away from them. I picked a sorry shit spot, didn’t I?”
“New Mecca is pretty shit.”
Quiet. They sit there for a stretch. The television runs a commercial for bottled cherry limeade.
“I’m stuck here because my mom died of a drug overdose a year ago. We were gonna leave but her property and belongings got seized after her death.” Richard says quietly. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his legs. Geez.
“Buddy,” Terry murmurs. He feels the weight on the futon shift. Terry is next to him, patting him on the back. “Buddy, it’s okay.”
“Yeah.”
After a few moments of Terry being close to him, he feels extremely awkward. This isn’t regular. Richard sits back up and nudges Terry, who gets the message and scoots a few feet away. Comfort accepted from another man. Nice. Hey, shut up, he’s in a vulnerable state right now. No judging, okay?
“You should show me your paintings sometime,” Richard says. Both he and Terry are grateful for the subject change. “I can… assess them. I bet you’re a great painter.”
“Oh. Yeah, that’d be really nice. And I’ll do whatever it takes to learn… to—”
“ Suomi . It’s what Finns call Finnish.”
“Yeah, learn suomi and move to Finland,” Terry gives him a small smile. “Thanks buddy.”
Terry draws his knees up to his chest and curls his arms around them. It’s a childish pose for a man as hulkingly large as him. He closes his eyes. Looks like it’s bedtime now.
“Nighty-night, Rich.”
“Goodnight.”
Richard props his feet up on the charred second hand coffee table and crosses his arms over his chest. Snzzz.
His job isn’t in total calamity after the Club Neon incident. Sure, he feels a lot less safe now that he’s witnessed the deadly precision of The Dragon up close, but V has increased everyone’s pay to keep them on board and his next few assignments pass without issue.
He sees Terry again and though he thinks it ought to be awkward considering what happened last time (re: carried and hugged by another grown man) but Terry enthusiastically calls his name and waves. After their shift they go drinking together until four in the morning and somehow Richard ends up sprawled on the floor of Terry’s apartment (it’s larger than his, but the walls are devoid of any decoration, and the furniture, despite being cleaner, has less charm) drunk out of his mind and chatting with Terry.
At some point Terry grabs him (“Woah, you’re strong.”) and leans him against the couch. He closes his eyes and groans when he’s tapped on the shoulder. Open eyes. Terry’s trying to show him something.
It’s a painting.
It’s a really beautiful painting.
“Terry,” he slurs. “Did’ya make this? ‘S really, really nice…”
“Yeah. I painted this by myself,” Terry smiles. He looks very pleased with himself. “You asked to see it. This is the view from the roof of my building at night. I thought it was pretty enough to paint.”
Richard squints. It does look like New Mecca. Terry made it look much more gorgeous in the painting, with dusky blues and high-rise buildings speckled in the yellow, pink, white glow of windows, thousands of people awake at the same time. He reaches and trails his fingers down the canvas to feel the texture.
“You’re a greaat painter. Your family’s stu—” He stops to cough. “Stupid!”
The skyline painting is tucked away and another one comes out of hiding. It’s more abstract than the previous one. Richard thinks it’s a human face.
“...this is a self portrait.”
“Oh.” Richard burps. His gaze flicks from down at the painting to up at Terry. Aaand big stretch. His hand finds its way upwards to cup Terry’s face. Woah. Even his face feels like it has super strong muscles.
Terry stills beneath his grasp. A warm puff of air scatters over the skin on Richard’s hand. Breathing. Eye contact. Warm. Very warm. Massaging Terry’s face. Eye contact with Terry. Still very warm. Breathing.
“I think th’ painting isn’t as nice as, as your actual face.” Richard says with the swaggering lilt of someone who’s had too many daiquiris.
Terry is breathing very, very slowly. He’s still very warm. Hand on face. Hand on face. Hand on face. Thumb on lip. What? Richard’s thumb moves to graze over Terry’s lip.
Someone grabs his wrist and it’s all sandpaper and gravel as that someone lowers his hand down, away from Terry’s face, away and away. Richard looks away from Terry’s eyes and realizes that someone was Terry himself. Cold. Colder now.
“I think…” Terry starts.
His face has become shrouded by his cap now, obscuring whatever emotions he might be feeling.
“I think I’m going to—”
Richard’s body decides this is the very best moment to interrupt whatever Terry’s saying and to start heaving. Terry grumbles and picks him up, dragging him to what he hopes is the bathroom. Baarf. Ugh. A wet washcloth wipes at his mouth and he lets exhaustion slip over him as he’s lowered onto the couch.
“I’m going to. Go to bed. Nighty-night buddy.” Terry says distantly. He sounds like he’s speaking from inside a tube. A soft blanket falls on top of him and Richard grabs onto it like he’s a newborn baby. Snzzz.
“Auuugh. Augh!”
Holy fucking shit it is so bright in here and everything hurts so bad. Has he died and gone to tell to suffer for eternity? He’s sorry, God! He didn’t mean to jaywalk and shoplift all those times, except when he did mean to.
A tight grip on the blanket (that’s new) to tug it over his face, shielding him from the worst of the sun’s rays.
Footsteps. Richard lowers the blanket to peek at who it is. Terry is standing in a baby blue nightgown and cap with his arms crossed. He looks like a guy who’d go “honk mimimi”.
“G’morning Terry. Ugh…”
“Shh. It’s fine, buddy. You can stay here for a couple hours. It’s a while ‘till we have to go to work,” Terry says quietly. It’s very nice of him to speak softly to avoid aggravating Richard’s headache even more. “You got very drunk last night.”
“I can gather that,” Richard grunts. “Sorry,” He wrings out his hands and swallows. A nauseating taste washes through his mouth. “Shit. Did I throw up last night?”
Terry nods. “...you don’t remember anything that happened?”
“No,” He finds the strength and manages to sit up, still holding the nice blanket around him. He’s still in his work uniform. “I saw one of your paintings. You showed me. It was real cool. The… New Mecca at nighttime.”
“Oh. Oh, okay.” It looks like some of the color has returned to Terry’s face. Richard wonders why.
“Next time we go drinking, stop me before I become too intoxicated. Please.”
“Gotcha. You look really terrible right now,” he says. “Lemme get you some Tylenprofen.”
Tylenprofen, like cross-doku, was one of New Mecca’s other inventions. New Mecca had a trend of combining two things together and that new combined thing becoming a smash hit across the nation. Tylenprofen contained twice the strength and also twice the side effects, but it was only half the price of buying a box of Tylenol or a box of Ibuprofen.
Richard closes his eyes and hears the floorboards shift under Terry’s weight as he presumably makes his way to wherever he keeps all his drugs. When Terry returns, it’s with the Tylenprofen and a glass of water. Yum. After that, uh…
…snzzz.
His “learn suomi and emigrate to Finland fund” is looking almost full these days. Richard can barely contain himself. Terry’s been a huge encouragement—and Richard’s been helping Terry break into the art scene more, too. Some of his paintings got accepted into a showcase for a small fine arts center. It’s definitely a start.
It feels like Richard spends more nights sleeping on Terry’s couch than on his own futon these days, but hey, Terry’s couch is miles more comfortable. At times Terry will ask him to pose for a painting and that’s always fun too.
V has begun to notice their obvious synergy (dreamers stick together!) and now assigns them more jobs together. Today they’re stationed at V’s private film studio, Studio 51. It’s large and spacious with multiple floors. They step into the elevator and Terry, mountainous and tall as ever, gently presses the button to the third floor.
The third floor is the set for a movie called Quiet Hills. Richard gets the feeling that this is strangely derivative, despite no similar video game existing in this universe. Fog wafts in from every corner of the floor and the rooms are labyrinthe in nature. They take up post in the area they were assigned. Discarded costumes and props (those weapons are definitely not real) lay on the ground. Looks like it’s gonna be another boring job.
After about an hour, Terry picks up one of the costumes on the ground. It’s a tattered off-white… dress-apron-frock thing with leather buckles and artistic splatters of blood.
“Watch this, buddy.”
Terry steps into the costume and pulls it up around his shoulders. Then he grabs the small coffin off the ground and fits it over his head. Oh, it’s part of the costume . Richard hadn’t realized. He’d assumed Quiet Hills had a plot point where an infant dies, and an infant-sized coffin was made for the baby to be buried in.
“Scary. Scary Terry.” Richard says, snorting. Terry walks forward and bumps his coffin head into the wall.
“Look, I’m Coffinhead,” he says mischievously. “I will, uh…” Terry leans down to pick up a massive cleaver from the ground. “Kill you with my Great Knife.”
“Is he actually called Coffinhead?” Richard asks.
“Of course! Haven’t you seen Quiet Hills 1 and 2?” Terry sounds incredulous. Richard has never heard of these movies in his life. The only feeling he gets is a strange sense of deja vu.
“...No.”
“Well, his name is Coffinhead. And he kills people with his Great Knife. It’s pretty famous. I think the boss only acquired the rights to make the third one by killing the guy who was actually supposed to direct it.”
“Riveting,” Richard nods. “Speaking of the boss, you should take that off before he comes by to check on us. We’ll get in trou— woah !”
Terry swings the cleaver at him violently. Richard yells and tries to dodge out of the way, but the cleaver connects with his chest. He watches in horror as it sinks into his flesh.
Wait, nevermind. He’s not dead yet. Of course it’s a retractable knife. Who would be using actual gigantic knives on a movie set? V is a pretty unsavory guy, but not that unsavory.
“I’m gonna get you, buddy! I’m gonna get you!”
“You know, it’s way more intimidating if you stop calling me ‘buddy’ while chasing me around!” Richard yelps, ducking around Terry to avoid the cleaver. Terry kicks his foot out and Richard trips over it. In a last-ditch attempt to escape, he flails his legs out and manages to bring Terry down with him too. Thud.
His back hits the ground hard (ouch). Richard sputters and braces his hands against the floor to get back up, but Terry falls on top of him.
“Man, you are heavy.” Richard grumbles. Then he stops. Quiet.
Terry is pressed against him. His beefy arms are resting on either side of him, keeping most of his weight off of Richard but also bracketing him in. He’s trapped. Terry takes off the coffin helmet. Uh, have Terry’s eyes always looked like the beautiful Pacific Ocean where he could take a swim in with snorkeling gear to meet all the little fishies and say hi to all the little corals in the reef, and then surface after he’s done snorkeling to go grab a delicious lunch on the boardwalk which he can eat while strolling down the walk and admiring the way the seagulls perch themselves so perfectly on the rocks out on the sea?
Richard stares at Terry. Terry stares back at him.
Right now there is a lot that he doesn’t understand. Terry is breathing slowly and Richard can hear his own heartbeat, and Terry’s heartbeat too, their hearts against each other separated only by skin and blood and their rib cages. He notices Terry has a little bit of stubble on his chin and there is a slightly lighter slice alongside his cheek, where he assumes must’ve been nicked by a knife in some kind of fight. He thinks he wants to protect Terry from knives and fights. He thinks he wants Terry to hold him in a way that will let their hearts touch. He thinks about Terry’s very square, very manly jawline and about sitting on a chair for three hours letting Terry squint at him and choose which colors will go best with his hair.
Quiet. Quiet. Breathing. Warm. He is so very warm right now. Terry blinks and breaks the silence. His heart is still beating at the same time as Richard’s.
“Buddy,” His voice is very very soft and gentle. “Can I kiss you?”
…
“Terry. We’re men. Men can’t kiss other men.”
Terry turns away. Richard thinks there is a little bit of ice in his blood right now. His heart is going to freeze over and when he knocks that frostbitten heart over with his hand it will shatter into a million little pieces. Glass, glass. Terry turns back at him.
Richard clears his throat. “Actually…”
There’s a first time for everything?
Richard grabs Terry by his neck and surges up to meet his mouth. Terry does not take good care of his lips—they’re chapped and dry. Regardless, he continues and Terry sighs happily into his mouth and kisses back. There are a lot of lips moving against other lips around this moment. He swipes his tongue against Terry’s mouth and okay those are teeth and someone else’s tongue, and he thinks maybe this is a line he doesn’t want to cross yet even though kissing a man doesn’t really feel that different from kissing a woman (aside from Terry’s five o’ clock shadow).
He pulls back and huffs. There is a bit of lightheadedness to him right now and he’s not really sure what to do about it. That was fun. He thinks. Terry is a good kisser. He decides to tell Terry that.
“You’re a good kisser.” Richard says.
Terry blinks at him and opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and wipes it with the back of his hand. He seems shell-shocked.
“Uh,” Terry mumbles. “Um. Thanks buddy.”
It occurs to Richard that Terry is still wearing the dress-apron-frock from Coffinhead’s costume. He’s just kissed a man who is covered in fake bloodstains.
“Do you want to talk about that, or…?” Terry trails off. Richard glances up at Terry and shrugs wildly.
“Talk about it? You’re the one who asked if you could kiss me, not the other way around!” Richard squawks. He feels his face heat up.
“Do you like men, Richard?”
Uh. Uhh. What is he supposed to say to that? He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to that. Did he take his Valium today? Holy fucking shit.
“I don’t…” He looks at the ground, at a loss for words. “Yes. Yeah. I think so. I like you . I mean, I like everything about you… I like spending time with you. And I’m really glad I took this job so we could meet each other.”
He hears a thump next to him. It’s Terry, dragging himself to Richard’s side and sitting. His knees are drawn to his chest. He looks very nervous right now, in his bloodstained off-white dress-apron-frock.
“...me too, buddy.”
Terry snakes his hand over to where Richard’s is. Warm. It’s warm holding Terry’s hand. They pass the rest of the shift leaning up to the wall, sitting and talking quietly and looking at each other and holding hands.
Over the next few months Richard learns a lot about Terry. He learns that Terry actually likes the flitty Gatsby cap part of his uniform because it means he can avoid looking at anybody. He learns that Terry’s favorite thing to paint is architecture. He learns that Terry is okay-ish at cooking, except when he’s making Italian food, then he’s absolutely amazing at cooking.
He also learns that Terry’s bed is more comfortable than his couch and that even though Terry wears socks when he sleeps his feet are still cold as icicles which means Richard has to play an elaborate game of find-a-sleeping-position-that-prevents-him-from-being-stabbed-by-icy-knives. He learns that Terry wakes up later than him even though he falls asleep faster. He learns that Terry really likes being kissed gently on the spot where his neck meets his shoulder.
Richard moves some of his things over to Terry’s apartment. It’s more spacious than his own, so why not? They keep a toothbrush for the other in each of their bathrooms.
No one at work knows yet, and they plan to keep it that way. V himself has a reputation for not being the most accepting person. Even though they did have a first kiss while at work , they know how to be professional.
Richard and Terry head out together for V’s mansion, their assignment for tonight. They lean against the wall and keep their eyes out for any intruders. Apparently The Dragon has been messing with V a bunch for the past while and there’s a chance he might appear.
Yosef is arguing with V about something when a loud crack sounds from overhead and a man jumps down from the roof, wielding a deadly sharp katana that immediately slices Yosef in half. Blood spurts everywhere and the guards around V ready themselves to begin attacking, but they barely stand a chance against the shine of The Dragon’s sword.
Richard and Terry sprint away and duck by the stairwell. It sounds like The Dragon is busying himself with striking at V.
“Terry. Stay calm. We’re gonna get out of here.” he whispers, patting Terry on the back. They survived Club Neon. They have to survive this one too.
Terry nods and they wait for The Dragon’s footsteps to grow quieter. Once they can’t hear anything from the serial killer, they tiptoe down another flight of stairs and dash through hallways until they reach the front door. Richard is out of breath and breathing hard.
Another encounter with The Dragon, and hopefully, they’ve lived again. Richard would probably kill himself if Terry got murdered by The Dragon.
After a few minutes of resting under the cover of some overgrown bushes, they sneak away and quietly take the most obscure routes to Terry’s apartment. The Dragon probably doesn’t care about a bunch of low-level goons. V would be the guy he’s after.
Hours later, Richard and Terry sit on the couch in front of the television while eating. A news report comes on. It’s about what happened at V’s mansion.
“A motorcycle chase ? Destroyed helicopter?! What the hell!” Richard yells, mouth open in shock. “I am so glad we got out of there when we could. I don’t even know how to ride a motorcycle.”
Terry knocks his forehead against Richard’s shoulder, who takes off Terry’s cap and begins to run his hands through Terry’s coarse hair.
“ Currently all sources state that the high-level crime boss known as ‘V’ is deceased and was murdered by a man who claims to be the famous serial killer, The Dragon. ”
The TV cuts to blurry footage shot from quite a distance away. It shows a blonde man, much taller than the swordsman they encountered twice, holding V by the neck.
“What…?” Richard mumbles in disbelief.
“ We encourage all Third District residents to stay inside and travel with caution until we can catch this cold-blooded killer. The police are working hard to catch The Dragon and put an end to his crimes. ”
Commercial. Richard glances down at Terry.
“Heh. As if the police are gonna do anything,” Terry snorts. “Their pockets are full of money from other crime bosses. I hate New Mecca.”
Richard scratches Terry’s scalp. A burst of courage pushes him to say something bold.
“We don’t have to stay here.”
Terry freezes and takes a deep breath.
“My Finland jar,” Richard starts. “I have enough money for both of us. We’ll just have to live in a city that’s less expensive than Helsinki.”
Terry’s hand intertwines with the hand that’s not petting his hair.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, definitely. Our boss is dead. Two serial killers might be chasing after us. There isn’t anything in New Mecca for us, not here,” Richard says slowly. He rubs his thumb over Terry’s hand. “We can leave.”
“Buddy. Us in Finland. Us learning suomi and moving to Finland.”
Terry looks at him with adoration in his eyes. Richard thinks he’s going to keel over and die. Finland. Finland.
“Yeah. Us, in Finland.” Richard echoes.
“Land of saunas and the Moomins… and love.”