Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ All I Have ❯ Comfortable Liar ( Chapter 1 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Warning: Cursing, slashy content.

: Comfortable Liar :

“So…what'll it be? You want the wonky, greasy shit that'll guarantee you a Sani-hut sit-in full of pain, or the safe, but relatively boring burger with fake mashed potatoes?”

“Do it come with iced tea, or that fake Kool-aid shit?”

“Do it not with either. It comes with Tang. I've got, this, like, extra pack to mix with my water.”

At six foot five, Adam Byrons was the tallest of their squadron. Nearly three hundred pounds of military trained muscle, he knew he looked the imposing figure. His wide shoulders allowed the heavy pack he was required to wear in the field to hang easily, weight distributed more comfortably than the others'. His exposed forearms were veiny and muscular, worked by hours of weight lifting and physical training. His hands were large, knuckles and fingers scarred with various activities in the field, fingernails trimmed neatly. He felt like a giant, especially when he was in full gear and out in the streets with the civilians.

At twenty three, Adam had lived the military life most of his years; enrolled within the Duncan Jones military academy at age ten, he sailed through his academics with ease and almost a sense of boredom. It wasn't until he was of age to be trained with the other military officers that he started to wake up. Duncan Jones Military was the next step up from the academy, and it earned him the rights to enforce safety and peace within the parasitic city of New Park. By the time he was out there on the streets, struggling with his squad to maintain civilian and structure safety from a raging Superhuman or Aliens bent on conquering the city for monetary gain, he had found himself.

But while he held a position that coveted the very sense and essence of manliness, a striking man with a gun and the power to make Superhumans and Aliens alike bow down to his deep commands, there was a weakness of his that he was forced to hide.

And it was all in the man that had been his best friend for years.

Adam inhaled the city's night air; filled with pollutants, hotdog stands, and the thick stench of a crowded human population. He listened to the exchange next to him, their squadron taking up a rickety park table, MREs being pulled from heavy packs and negotiated amongst those that had forgotten to pack their money before they were dropped off by a sleek Assault By Air Vehicle. Their ABAV wasn't due to pick them up before dawn, which meant they had hours of walking to complete.

He hoped that their lead had remembered to pick up their new Fast-Trac cards, because he grew tired of the nearly monotonous walking of the city streets. His boots, designed as they were to withstand the hard pressure of his weight against hard sidewalk, were still uncomfortable after walking in them for several hours.

The presence of DJ soldiers patrolling the streets, interacting with all occupants alike, was similar to that of ordinary police officers. They were there only to provide help as it was needed, and to monitor and control situations that the Normal forces couldn't.

The seven of them, six males and one female, were assigned together based on compatibility and ability. All were geared for combat, all were physically capable of handling the tough mental and physical strains that they encountered during their patrols. While they battled fussy Superhumans and angry Aliens, their Normal bodies were encased within specially designed suits that would protect them from assaults. Explosions, heavy weight collapses caused by structure failures or exceedingly heavy bodies of Aliens or robotic entities and other such calamities were included. It also tended to amplify their physical capabilities; allowing them to jump higher and further when the need called, to run or move in ways a situation required.

Advanced technology, caused by the integration of Alien and human minds, allowed them to view and process holographic computer activities that they accessed from flexible keypads strapped to their arms. Communication and life-monitoring devices were strapped to their necks, allowing medical and communicative personnel back at the base to monitor their every physical reaction, their spoken words. Their suits were also equipped with stealth options, allowing their camouflage in the city streets if necessary. Visuals of thermal imaging and x-ray options were included within their individual goggles that they wore with their protective helmets. Options also included the ability to monitor each other on those goggles, as well as whatever it was the telecommunications officer needed to share with the rest of his squadron.

Larson Edwards gave a gruff sigh, holding up the vacuum sealed MRE in one hand. At six foot three, he was fit and able as the rest of his squad, held back by possessing bad vision. With his helmet strapped in place, his face appeared thinner than those around him, giving the impression that he was the weak male of the group. His voice was unnaturally nasal; it had taken Adam awhile to get used to it.

“I've got Spaghetti-os. With fake cornbread, guaranteed to kill your liver.”

“With tea? I'll give you the burger with Tang.”

“What is with you and Tang?”

“It's not like I ask for it!”

“Fine. Gimme the Chinese. I haven't been regular for, like, since last Tuesday.”

“It includes the ice tea, or the Tang. You can't have both.”

“I've got twenty bucks,” Adam said slowly, propping his weathered assault weapon between his knees. “I can get two `dogs. With finishings. And a pop. But that's it. That's including me, of course.”

“Dude, take your Spaghetti-os. Adam, you're such a liar. You said you forgot your wallet before we even took off.”

“Who said I was sharing with you?”

Ian Peters gave him a wounded look while Larson gave a nasal chuckle. “What's the deal, big guy? What we gotta do if we want a piece of that?”

“I thought we were friends, Adam. It's only natural to include me when you're making big decisions like that.”

“What are you, my wife?” Adam asked him.

“You only agreed to marry me for the sake of our baby!” Ian exclaimed, wrapping an arm around Larson's neck.

“I must've been sick that day.”

“Or hungover. Which can be similar,” Larson rambled, shrugging off Ian's arm and adjusting his face-swallowing goggles.

“C'mon, break's almost over you guys,” Bridgette Neilson said nearby, picking at her own MRE. “Then you're going to have to eat on the run.”

“Guys don't care about that sort of thing,” Larson said.

“And girls notice that. Which is why you apes haven't had dates in months.”

“How's the lesbian thing going for you, anyway?”

“Going just as well as your gay thing.”

“Hah! She said you're `gay',” Ian said with a laugh.

“Insults! Most of `em roll off my back, but that one kinda stung because it hits close to home.” Larson rubbed at the communicative collar on his neck. “Adam, honey, do something to her. Make me happy.”

Adam frowned down at the squad's only female. “Bridgette can kick in my balls. I'd rather not.”

“Hah! Adam said `balls' in front of a girl.”

“Yeah, in front of you.”

“Ouch.”

“What's taking you girls so long to eat?” their lead asked, finally noticing that the trio hadn't bothered to get their food. His weathered face created a grimace as he held up a wrist to examine his arm comp, noting the time. “We've got miles of disgusting hobo territory to cover, and you're arguing over stupid stuff like that.”

“I want my `dog with mustard, `k, thanks,” Ian said to Adam, slapping his shoulder.

“What makes you think I'm getting you anything?”

“Hello? Best friend?”

“So?”

“Adam, I'll give you ten bucks when my mom sends me money,” Larson said, adjusting his goggles, which were standard-issue for those that required corrective lenses. It also served as his visual communicators, which helped his position as telecommunications officer. “In, like, I dunno, when she dies or something.”

“Fine. I'll cover room chores,” Ian said heavily.

“For how long?”

“A day! C'mon, no hotdog is worth anything more than that! I'd cover for you without even asking!”

“I hate fixing my bed. And that pesky bathroom…”

“A day!”

“Twenty bucks when we get back,” Larson said quickly.

“Just eat your MREs!” Bridgette snapped at both of them, annoyed at their immaturity. “He's just enjoying you two begging because he likes the attention.”

“I don't get enough attention at home,” Adam mock-confessed.

“Adam's the type of guy who enjoys having power and control,” Ian said, digging out his MRE once more and giving it a dejected look. “Oh, woe, I'm going to have Tang again. And I hope people have extra rolls of toilet paper, because this Chinese is going to go right through me—”

“I thought we agreed I was having that!” Larson exclaimed.

“You're getting a hotdog!”

“Will people stop toilet talking in front of me?” Bridgette asked, rising from the bench, gathering her trash.

“Is that all it took to make her leave? Duly noted,” Larson said, conjuring up his arm comp and writing in holographic notes.

“You should learn that tongue thing I do to my girlfriends,” Ian said with a mock laugh, opening his MRE while Adam walked over to the nearest hotdog vendor.

“Ew. Stop.” Bridgette stomped off, an imposing soldier that didn't look female from the back—her gear hid her gender until she turned around, revealing the delicate features of her face.

“If she only stopped to listen. I only say how they hate when I lick their ears to make them wake up.”

“That is so gross,” Larson said with a laugh. “You ever do it to Adam?”

“I'd be run through with a fist of fury. Yuck, even the thought of doing it as a joke to another guy is just…pure faggy,” Ian said with a shudder, mixing up the contents of his MRE with the water from his canteen.

“I'd do it. If someone paid me enough.”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you? Lars, you're a sick puppy.”

“And they give this guy a gun,” Larson added with a scoff, holding up his assault weapon.

Adam returned, holding a couple of trays. Both Ian and Larson looked up, hopeful, until Adam passed a tray to their medic, Sam Hill. He was the only one of the group that was sitting off to the side, fiddling with his knee-pads, trying to ignore his growling stomach. The youngest of the group, Sam had been a recent addition, and was having a hard time adjusting to the physical demands. He was also home-sick and Adam only knew all this because Ian had been the only one to ask.

“Adam, you make me so proud,” Ian said, scooping up a sporkful of teriyaki noodles. “Watching out for the small fry.”

“I promised you twenty bucks,” Larson said in disgust, sitting down and reluctantly tearing open an MRE.

“Just eat your crap and be happy you have something to eat,” Adam said, taking a large bite of his `dog.

“We're hitting the homeless sector,” Ian said as Bridgette took a seat next to him. “Cooney approved it last time. I think it'll be good for us to get our faces known out there. It's an undiscovered seabed of information.”

“Sir ordered for us to not pass out anything again,” she reminded him. “It doesn't make well for those people to rely on us, and it completely hinders our patrols.”

“I fully intended to honor that,” he said cheerfully, but she gave him a skeptic look. She reached into his pack, pulling out several packs of MREs. “I'm a hungry guy. How dare you touch my food. I could eat your toenails if you aren't careful.”

“I'm confiscating this. I hate it when Sir yells at us for your stupidity.”

“Who says he has to know?” he asked, snatching them back.

Bridgette frowned at him as he packed them into his ammo pouch, for easier access. “You're stupid. If they haven't helped themselves by now, why should we?”

“A question for the true intellectual!”

“Yes? Someone called me?” Larson asked, snapping his head up.

Adam finished off his food with a shake of his head, hoping the nearby civilians wouldn't hear their conversation. The city relied on the military to keep the peace on the streets; to know that they had the minds of teenagers would only frighten them.

At six foot one, Ian was the shortest male of the group. Even young Sam Hill had a few inches and twenty pounds more on him. He had dark blond hair, and he kept a short hair style, something easily hidden and workable with his helmet. He'd discontinued the high and tight years ago, wanting something that seemed more civilian. His facial features were passable; a friendly face with wide blue eyes, light brown eyebrows, a somewhat large nose and pink, easy-to-smile lips. His face was troubled with pimples where his helmet strap clenched, but carved with a rounded jaw and somewhat sunken cheeks. He had a slender frame with compacted muscles, but he definitely was able to hold his own in an exhausting firefight.

He was the one everyone looked at for a decision made, the workings of a leader obvious with his insight and careful action on the field. He was also the one that noticed whether someone of their group was having trouble, or needed to have some manly discussion over inwardly held feelings. With the seemingly abnormal way in that he never seemed to miss a thing, it made sense in that he would be the one to hold the position of sniper.

He had entered the academy at the same time as Adam had. Ian's parents had been separated when he was very young; his father was a retired military officer, and his mother a space travel flight attendant. But his father, raging from the effects of PTSD had relinquished his parental rights, leaving Pamela to raise Ian on her own. She had died later from a space flu, and Ian had been turned over by the state to the military academy. As such, Adam took him in, inviting him to family outings and functions when the academy allowed, and things had grown from there.

They had gotten inseparable. Each knew each other's secrets; most of them. With his upbringing, with the `don't ask, don't tell' policy that continued to inflict the military, Adam would never confess what he felt to his best friend. Ingrained with the hatred and disrespect of gays by fellow officers, he knew that to do so would be his entire undoing. Ian himself was an intense homophobe; viewing them as a strike against humanity. He was a friendly, open person, but when it came to encountering someone of obvious gender borrowing, he shut down and turned stony, equipping himself with harsh words and disgusted looks.

Tortured with loving his best friend, knowing that nothing would ever come to be, Adam could only seal away the secret in silence.

He studied his reflection in the closet hidden full-length mirror. Dressed in a plain t-shirt and jeans, he could have passed off as a civilian. But his shoulders and posture were too rigid, and he had pimples where the helmet strap rubbed. His own short cropped hair was gelled back, his naturally wavy hair difficult to keep if it weren't short. His thick eyebrows, heavily furred and slanted over hooded dark eyes, were often considered comical and unnatural. They were the only feature to truly stand out, and he'd heard too many insults and jokes regarding them.

He frowned at them, his jaw clenched tight. He then tried to relax his shoulders, to fit into a posture that could be considered relaxed, but the posture was completely off. He was simply too much of a soldier.

Being their day off, plans had been made to go into New Park City for some recreation activities. He wasn't sure what they were going to do, but the weather was warm and comfortable as it always was, and he had a wallet that wouldn't complain if he planned on purchasing something. He wanted to get off the base for awhile, to escape some of the monotony that clouded the wide area.

“I can't find my one black shirt,” Ian complained as he barged into Adam's room, wearing only one sock, cargo shorts and a man-beater. His clavicle looked bony as he gave a shrug, but his shoulders and neck was muscular. His long limbs were well muscled and toned, and it took all Adam had to give him a disinterested sweep, as if surveying his words to find them true.

“You have only one black shirt?” Adam asked, turning away from the mirror and shutting his closet door.

“Well, y'know…the one with the…well, it's like…short sleeved.” Ian gestured at his arms, to show where the sleeves fell.

“Yup. Sounds like the shirt.”

“It's black…with…sleeves.”

“I don't keep track of your laundry,” Adam said.

“Tell me honestly: did you borrow it?”

It was a ridiculous question, considering how different their sizes were. But he found himself smiling in response. “No. Why are you wearing only one sock?”

“Oh yeah. Have you seen my other sock?”

“…No.”

Ian then examined his outfit with a thoughtful frown. “Why are you wearing pants? It's a hundred degrees out.”

“I don't want to intimidate people with my manly calves.”

“Oh, I have that problem, too. But, usually, my black shirt tends to distract people first. Are you sure you haven't seen it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what about my sock?”

“Why are we talking in circles?”

“We usually don't. I mean, when I had my black shirt, we wouldn't have started this in the first place.”

“I haven't seen either.”

“Isn't it weird how we can talk about the same things over and over and never get bored?”

“Odd.”

“If I had my black shirt, we wouldn't even have had this conversation.”

“Oh, I definitely agree with you there.”

“My other sock, too.”

“It's strange how it has to match the other one exactly.”

“Or that my shirt is black. And that I'm looking for it.”

“Is it Tuesday already?”

“LARS! Have you seen my black shirt?” Ian then shouted, leaving Adam's room and clamoring downstairs.

“The one with the sleeves?”

“Yeah!”

“No, haven't seen it. Or the missing sock.”

“How'd you know I was looking for that, too?”

Adam rolled his eyes at the resulting circle of words, giving his immaculate room a once over. The three of them shared a small two story house on base; it was simply easiest responding to an emergency call if they were within proximity of the main command center. It also just wouldn't have felt right if they lived somewhere within the city, without hearing the activity of the training camps surrounding the base. The loud explosions, the firecracker sound of gunfire, the columns of men and women performing PT on the streets, the rolling ground vehicles that were often called into the city for some Super or Alien mishap…

His room was located upstairs, the slender staircase providing the option of venturing directly into his room or a sharp turn to the left, to a large bathroom that was overcrowded with three plain cabinets that held each individual's supplies. The shower stall was currently scrubbed clean, and three unused candles lined the single window's sill. There was a holoset that sat in the wall, to provide some form of entertainment for someone using the toilet. The sink and counter was neat and structured, with three sets of toiletries sitting asymmetrical from the mirror.

Downstairs was a small living room, currently packed of comfortable secondhand furniture, and various shelves; Larson's electronic equipment was packed in everywhere, for the telecommunications officer enjoyed tinkering with various forms of equipment whenever he had the chance. The walls were clean and bare, but the windows were closed tight with light blue blinds. The kitchen was cluttered with various protein and muscle performance powder; the fridge stocked with healthy but heaping quantities of food. They went through their food stuffs like crazy, their combined incomes earning several trips to the grocery store each week.

Larson's room was located just off the kitchen, Ian's off the living room. Walking down the stairs, he saw both of them mixing their various protein shakes at the counter, Larson clad in sleep wear, Ian still missing articles of clothing.

“You're not going in?” Adam asked, searching for a pair of shoes located on the rack near the staircase.

“Nah, I'm staying. I've got, like, a billion projects I want to finish,” Larson answered, holding up what looked to be a broken keypad.

“And he's looking for my sock. Still can't find it.”

“Then you're not going in with me,” Adam said, frowning down at Ian as he sipped at his newly mixed shake. “Change into something else! Find another pair of socks!”

“It's the concept of the thing, Adam, dear.”

“Didn't you do laundry last? Maybe it's still over at the `mat,” Larson suggested, dropping in pieces of fruit before blending the concoction. Over the sound he said, “Don't stay out there long, either. The fight's on, tonight.”

“Let's go see it live,” Ian said, wiping his mouth.

“I don't have the money for that,” Adam said with a frown, thinking of the arena in downtown New Park. “I had to pay off a few things this week. Send my mom some money. If I knew we were going to watch it, I would have held off on the bills.”

“I invited a few guys over for it. They're bringing stuff. Beer. Food. Hopefully some chicks. Adam, you need to meet Natalie. She is exactly your type,” Larson said, adjusting his glasses as he looked up at his roommate. His wild brown hair, cut long on top and left perpetually untamed, made him look like some scheming mad scientist. His sleepwear was covered in brown teddy bears holding machine guns. “Tallish, blondish and not an intelligent cell in her body.”

Adam studied him for a few moments. “Why is that my type?”

“Because opposites attract. Betcha were thinking something else, huh?”

“No.”

“Damn it. Still working on the psychic machine,” Larson said, holding up the keypad again. “Once I have it working, none of you fools will ever realize that I'll sneak into your rooms at night and implant this very small nanomite that'll allow me to control—never mind.”

“Why don't you go into the science department?” Ian asked him, snatching the keypad to stare at it vacantly.

Larson snatched it back. “Because they won't let me shoot things over there. And we have to wear lab coats. I don't know if you fellas have noticed, but I don't wear white well. Says my tightie whities.”

“Ew!” Ian said with a laugh.

“What self-respecting man says `ew'?” Adam asked on a mutter.

“Did that just slip out? I meant, Man, that's sick,” Ian corrected, lowering his voice even deeper to do so. “Sorry Adam. My immaturity tends to pop out every now and then.”

“They have Velcro for that.”

“I haven't found any camo-styles.”

“Seriously, no. I'm content where I am. I like looking like I'm a man,” Larson added with a sniff, examining the keypad. “The chicks are easier to catch that way. Hell, if I told them I was this scientist, they'd totally just ignore me. But now, now when they see my thirty-six inch guns…”

Ian studied Larson's flexed biceps. “Yeah right.”

“Ian, find your sock so we can go,” Adam said impatiently.

“Yes, Dad,” Ian said, finishing off his shake and walking off, looking through various shelves before disappearing into his room once more.

Larson held up a sock. “It's not this one, is it? I thought it was mine. I was using it for, ah, various, ah, cleaning activities.”

“Gross,” Adam heard himself say, shooting Larson a disgusted look.

“I needed to clean my desk off! What'd you think I meant?”

“Oh. Nothing. Never mind.”

Larson shrugged and tossed the sock into the sink to finish off his shake. “You have a pervy mind, Byrons.”