Chapter 3: Echoed Vendettas

Lloyd ‘Smalls’ Webber sat quietly in the bed he had awoken in, boredom apparent in his listless stare. A light haze hung over his consciousness, byproduct of the pair of bi-colored capsules he had taken not long before to dull the pain in the wounded shoulder. Settling into the angled bed, head sinking into the rather stiff pillow, he let his gaze linger on the drab ceiling. Since the commander and her troupe had departed only the doctor and a nurse had come by to check on him. Sadness tugged at his heart, realizing his squad members wouldn’t be visiting, but no tears would come, they had all been spent. Closing his eyes for a moment, he opened them to find a hauntingly familiar face staring down at him from the white plaster. Narrow eyes smirked in the same fashion as the face’s thin lips. With another blink the face was gone, Lloyd’s body slowly loosening up from the paralyzing fear the expression had brought upon him. “God…” he breathed quietly, reaching for a glass of water resting on a nearby table.

Downing the remaining liquid in a few deep swallows, he replaced the glass, wiping away any stray water with his forearm. He held his forearm near his face, inspecting the array of scraps and cuts decorating his skin. Slumping forward, forearm dropping onto the thin sheet covering his lower half, Lloyd sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” it was the doctor, closing the door behind him, giving Lloyd an admonishing look.

“Sorry doc,” Lloyd grunted unapologetically, flopping back against the mattress, letting out a strained yelp.

The doctor drew a bit of amusement from the yelp, letting out an I-told-you-so chuckle before walking towards the bed. Routinely checking the few monitors still attached to the boy, the doctor took a step back, silently considering something. “Hey doc? When ya gonna let me out of bed?”

“I was thinking about right now, since you didn’t sustain and bone breaks. But if I do you’ve got to make sure not to do anything stupid,” the doctor cautioned, moving to remove the boy from the equipment.

Once free of the sensors, Lloyd rubbed his right hand over his bare torso as if trying to wipe away the light redness left behind by the disks. “There’s a change of clothes on the chair in the corner,” the doctor nodded towards the outfit, “Just be careful kid.”

As the doctor left the room, Lloyd slid from under the cover, standing barefoot on the carpeted floor. The mention clothing lay folded on the seat of the chair, a pair of shoes sitting at the foot of the chair. Within arms reach of the clothing, he stopped, feeling hesitant to put the Aqua uniform on again. The feel of hot metal punching through his skin and muscles burned in Lloyd’s mind, the sight of men falling lifelessly running before his eyes. A deafening crack ended the assault, his vision clearing to reveal the folded uniform on the chair. ‘You’re in deeper than you expected Lloyd,’ the boy thought sourly as he snatched up the shirt off the top of the pile, ‘but there’s no backing out now.’

Carefully, he slid his injured arm through its sleeve, wincing as the cloth pulled upwards on the limb. With the hardest task done, the rest of dressing process went as naturally as possible, Lloyd stood after tying the second shoe. Smoothing out the stray winkles in the clothing, he noticed the obvious bulge the bandage created. He knew that he was going to be flooded with questions once out of the room, and the thought didn’t appeal to him. The attention would detract him from his new focus. ‘Whoever killed my friends is gonna get his due. This one’s for you guys,’ he thought looking towards the ceiling, ‘this one is for you.’

---

A sleek sports car rolled down a snowy driveway, halting long enough for a large door to slide open, granting it access to a spacious garage. Once within the confines of the building the driver killed the engine, the garage door quietly closing. Inside the car, the driver carefully gathered up his errant belongings, stowing smaller objects in the pockets of his lengthy coat. Sure he had retrieved everything, one hand reached for the car door, the other snatching up a suitcase resting on the seat next to him. The door popped with ease, a single black dress show exiting the car, clapping against the concrete floor. Its partner soon joined it as the driver turned in his seat, stepping out of the car. Closing the door, he came face to face with his reflection in the window. “Ya know. I’m getting tired of looking at myself all the time,” Ash chuckled, ruffling his already messy hair.

Taking a sideways glance, he noticed the absence of the garage’s other usual inhabitant, casually shrugging it off. Ash strode quickly to the entrance into the house, stepping into the warmer interior of the building. Shedding his coat and draping it over an arm, the young man treaded over the tile floor to the carpeted living room.

The room wasn’t lavishly furnished, but furniture wasn’t his focus, the near bare walls were. Almost no pictures hung on the dark blue surfaces, even fewer sat on tables scattered about the room. Those that dotted the room, Ash noticed, weren’t placed there by him. That observation brought a grin to his face. His dark eyes wandered over the images, their gaze lingering on a photo within arms reach. A trio of figures crowded the picture, their faces happy, or at least feigning it well. Brad and Ash stood side by side, a certain red head draped over their shoulders. The photo quickly lost its appeal, as did the others, so Ash decided to move on. A narrow hallway led to a bedroom, where Ash tossed both his suitcase and coat on the bed. The urge to toss himself on the mattress grew, but escaped as a weary sigh. “I hate jet lag.”

Plopping down on the bed next to his nightstand, he reached for the suitcase. Quickly dialing in the combination and popping the latches, Ash opened the lid. His index fingers carefully traced the outer edge of the top, finding a pair of hidden clasps. The false top dropped out with a push, a handgun coming into view. Releasing the loaded weapon from its concealed holster and replacing it in the nightstand drawer, Ash placed the fake lid back in the suitcase. The sound of the bedroom door closing caught Ash’s ear as he moved the closed suitcase into the closet. A pair of slender arms wrapped about his waist, strands of red hair floating into view. “Hey Ashy boy,” a quiet, female voice greeted, a slightly seductive tone to it.

Without turning, Ash grinned, reaching back to embrace his guest, “Hey Ashley.”

---

“Mike’s Bar and Grill,” a dark skinned man noted, glancing up at the establishment’s lighted sign as he gripped the door handle firmly.

As he opened the door several patrons looked his way, the owner working the bar nodding to his new customer. With his above-average height the man spotted many regulars in the crowd, being a regular himself. In a far corner another man, not a regular but a familiar face, sat. A drink was perched on the table in front of him, pudgy fingers wrapped loosely around the glass’ base. “Hey Brock,” one of the regulars welcomed, extending a hand.

“Hey,” Brock answered back, having forgotten the man’s name, but still shaking the offered hand.

Moving on, winding through the crowded bar, Brock stopped across from the man I the corner. “Ah! Brock,” the man exclaimed, having only noticed the rather large man when taking a pull from his drink.

Brock grinned widely, holding out a hand to keep the man from rising to greet him. Instead, the man waved a hand towards the open bench across the table, using the other to call over a waiter. The worn cover groaned as Brock slid into the seat, glancing up in time to deny a menu. “I’ll give you two a minute,” the waiter informed before departing to tend to other customers.

“Need a look?” the man asked in a gruff voice, holding out his menu.

“Thanks John, but no. Just gonna get the usual.”

The waiter returned as John continued to flip thrugh the menu. Turning to Brock, the young man half-grinned, “The usual medium-rare steak?”

Brock simply nodded, crossing his arms to wait for his company to decide upon his dinner. Flashing an apologetic grin without looking up, eyes darting between different dishes, John jabbed the menu with a finger. “I’ll have the Chef’s Caesar Salad with ranch dressing. Could you put a little extra dressing on? Thanks,” John finally spoke, waiting until the waiter was out of earshot before continuing on, “The wife thinks I need to lose a little weight.”

Both men shared a grin, Brock shaking his head, “Don’t think the extra dressing is going to help you drop those pounds, and it does look like you could stand to lose some. How are the kids by the way?”

“Old enough to be sapping me of my money and young enough that I can’t kick em out,” the older man chuckled, a sentimental smile settling on his lips as the laughter died off, “And what about your ever changing love life?”

“We’ll leave that a private matter,” Brock smirked, noticing the waiter returning with dinner out of the corner of his eye, “Besides. It’s time to eat.”

The final statement left John confused until the waiter set the requested salad on the table, the man’s rotund body jumping slightly in surprise. Hiding behind a glass of golden liquid, Brock laughed quietly, taking a sip of the liquid before speaking, “I’ll never understand how a man like you made it so far up the ladder.”

“All about how you know and what you know,” John grunted, stabbing his fork through ranch-drenched lettuce, sliding the dripping mass into his mouth.

Any conversation lapsed into silence as the two men went about consuming their food. To Brock the meal didn’t carry its usual flavor, a heavy suspicion hung over him, his mind telling him he wouldn’t be sharing this meal unless someone wanted something done. John finally cleared his throat, looking towards Brock as if to speak. “We’ve got another job for you,” John informed, leaning over his plate as if to emphasize the statement.

“Unless it’s against Aqua you know I won’t take it,” Brock insisted evenly, taking a drink from his glass, replacing it on the table as he congratulated himself for foreseeing the conversation.

The other man paused his eating, looking away, trying to find the right spin to put on the orders. Reading the man’s expression, Brock leaned forward as well, dropping his voice to a low growl, “I still have three siblings six feet under thanks to Aqua. You damn well know that’s the reason I agreed to join you. To pay that pack of spineless cocksuckers back for what they did to my family,” ‘and to get back at Misty,’ he didn't add.

Several shouts rose from the bar, apparently whatever seasonal sports game was going to the customers’ liking. Brock glanced at a television hanging above the bar counter, quickly returning his attention back to his guest who sat, idly picking at his food. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, but you knew before coming here what the answer was.”

The man sighed in defeat; letting his fork drop onto his plate, “Just lay low okay? If they figure out who you are and who you're working for they’ll want you just as dead as you left their men.”

Brock snorted, “They sent boys to do a man’s job. And don’t worry, when they come I’ll be more than ready,” he promised with a cruel grin.

As the grin faded the discussion halted, each man returning to his respective meal. The rather juicy bits of meat held no flavor to Brock as his mind wandered back to the night that had brought him to where he sat now.

***

Ash, on his way home after another early exit from another tournament, had decided to drop by the Pewter City Gym. Delighted to find his friend in good spirits after both the loss in battle and the departure of an old, close friend, Brock had offered to treat Ash to a meal in town, mostly so they could talk with a bit of privacy. Ash had selected a simple diner in the middle of town. For the most part it was empty, but that was expected at such an off hour, and the two seated themselves along an outer wall of windows. With their orders taken, they dove into conversation, reminiscing about the simpler life of old, and pondering the complex world they seemed headed towards. The conversation ended naturally and Ash checked his watch, noting that he should be leaving. Brock tried to give his friend a place to rest; night had just set upon them, but was graciously turned down. After paying the bill, Brock found Ash waiting outside. Speaking the usual parting words, they went their separate ways.

Within sight of home, Brock noticed something amiss. The once proud gym now lay in a pile of rubble. His leisurely walk turned into a panicked sprint. Arriving at the mound of broken rock, out of breath and sweating, he fell to his knees. Quivering hands lower to the ground, carefully scooping up a loose rock, holding as if it held the dieing essence of the building it had once been a part of. Teeth clenched as fingers wrapped tightly around the rock, Brock slowly rising to a stand. His mind screamed out for answers to the single question: why. Nothing that came made sense, nothing about what sat before him did either. Breaking his gaze from the rock in his hands, Brock noticed his family standing around the pile of rubble. He took a head count, his anger dieing as he came up three short.

He counted again, still three missing.

Another count, still three.

The cycle broke as his father rushed to his side. Grief was painted all over his face; twin trails of tears streaking down his cheeks. The older man’s shoulders shook as his hands wove wildly through the air. Broken phrase spilled from his mouth mixed with anguished cries of distress. Finally the news came out, three of Brock’s siblings had decided to camp in the gym. Now their campsite lay in ruins. Adrenaline overtook Brock's body, compelling him to find a way into the mountain of stone. Pools of water reflected the moon's light between rocks as Brock circled the fallen gym. Find no way in, he fell to his knees, barely aware of the moisture soaking into his clothing, and screamed. He screamed until his was hoarse, and then wept until the lights and sirens of approaching rescue vehicles drew near. After most of the pile had been moved aside a cop come for Brock, asking the weary man to follow him. When they stopped, the image before them horrified him. Camping gear lay scattered about three small bodies, twisted and broken.

***

“Hey,” a distant voice called, the sound of snapping fingers accompanying the quiet words.

The daze shattered, the interior of the bar reappearing. “Hey, Brock, I’m headed out. I already took care of the bill. Take care, and be careful.”

“Oh, thanks,” Brock answered faintly, still feeling trapped in the memory.

Rising from his seat, John made his way through the crowded building, exiting into the night. For a moment Brock remained in his seat, silently scanning the patrons seated along the bar. Resting his gaze on an attractive young blonde he smiled, sliding from the bench seat and starting in her direction. An open seat awaited him, the bartender stepping his way. The lady turned his way and offered a welcoming smile. “Hey Mike. I’ll take a Sam and,” turning to face his guest, “the young lady with have a?”

“Cosmopolitan, thanks,” her smile grew a bit friendlier and inviting.

Brock returned the gesture, hoping some company tonight would ease the pain of remembering.

To be continued…