Brock takes the Camelbak and a drink mix packet with him into the truck stop, makes a beeline for the bathroom. No sense breaking into their potable water until it’s strictly necessary. Brock takes a quick leak, then heads to the sink to mix the Soldier’s lunch. He dumps the packet into the bottle, fills it with cold water, and screws the lid on to give it a hard shake.
The resultant creamy drink looks almost like a Muscle Milk. Some similar kind of gainer shake, maybe. It smells a little like vanilla, but mostly chalk and powdered vitamins and concentrated gym rat tears. This, this is what they have an entire case of in the back of the van.
That poor son of a bitch. Brock shakes his head and tucks the empty packet into the pocket of his coveralls for secure disposal later.
The Subway is to the right once he comes out of the bathroom, built into the back wall of a grungy convenience store. Mitchell is perusing a nearby rack of ‘VIrginia Wines!!’ as if they’re not goddamn on duty. Brock gives him a look and brushes past to put in his sandwich order. The kid behind the counter looks barely old enough to shave, let alone be shaving meat.
“Hey, man.”
Harper is in line behind him all of a sudden, fidgeting with a bag of Fritos.
“Yeah?”
Brock adopts a similarly casual stance, gives the agent a working-bros nod. To an outside observer, they should look like two Joes at lunch.
“Since we stopped already,” Harper asks. “Who’s driving next?”
“I am,” Brock frowns. “Why do you need to know?”
Harper’s eyes flick briefly to the sandwich artist. The Subway kid isn’t even paying attention, messing with the oven for Rollin’s sandwich.
“Can I call shotgun, at least? Kind of sick of hanging out with Bingo.”
“Bingo,” Brock says flatly because what the hell. That is an absolutely terrible fucking dog name.
Harper must mistake his blankness for rage, because the agent starts back pedaling like a politician.
“It’s cool if I can’t! Just thought we could change up. Or trade.”
“Sorry man, no can do,” Brock says as sweetly as possible, because he’s itching to snarl ‘permission denied’ instead. He suspects Harper’s only springing this now because they’re with civilians, and there’s no way Brock can chew him out properly without blowing their cover. And he’s willing to tolerate a transfer being freaked out (especially given the bizarre kinky dog pound), but at some point, Harper is going to have to deal with the Soldier’s improbable existence. He doesn’t have much of a life expectancy if he can’t.
“Hit up Big Jay, maybe he’ll trade?” Brock adds. ‘Jay Romero’ is Rollins’ fake name for the road; they stick with initials that match their real ones so nobody gets confused.
“Okay, cool.”
Harper’s expression is indiscernible behind his paper mask, but his nod is amicable enough. Rollins will probably tell him to fuck off too, probably in graphic detail, but that will be a good life lesson in not being a little bitch. Brock swings up to the register to pay for his sandwiches. By the time he gets Rollins’ Coke from the fountain, Harper has taken off like his ass is on fire.
Whatever. His funeral. Brock does a quick time check and is pleased to see he’s got more than enough time to grab some canned lightning for the road. The way the rotation goes, he and Rollins get the ass-crack of dawn shift. He picks up a few Monsters and those bottled Frappuccinos no one admits they like, and juggles the whole mess out to the diesel pumps where the van is pulled up and fueling.
Rollins is standing by the van with his baseball cap pulled low, watching the gallons tick slowly up. The mobile strike unit is a beast that takes forever to fill.
“Sandwich,” Brock grunts and waves the bag at him. It’s dangling from his left fist, but his arms are too full of drinks to hand it over.
“Thanks.” Rollins relieves him of the Subway bag and fishes his Coke out from the crook of Brock’s right elbow.
“Get the door, I gotta feed the Soldier.”
Rollins takes point at an angle to the back bumper so his bulk can block the pump security cam. He waits until the Volvo at the next pump pulls away before tugging the left door just far enough for Brock to barrell inside.
Brock dumps his strategic reserve of caffeine into the open case of nasty Soldier shake mixes, but hangs on to the Camelbak. He’s so focused on stashing the drinks that it takes him a second to realize what’s going on.
Harper and Mitchell are frozen by the Soldier’s cage, staring intensely at something just in front of them. A yellow-and-red Subway napkin is sitting just in front of the open cage door, bearing a small pile of potato chips.
The Soldier is stretching metal fingers toward them with the same caution you’d use to defuse a bomb.
“Who the shit,” Brock begins, and stops himself. It doesn’t matter, he realizes with rising alarm, who thought it was a good idea to give unapproved food to the Soldier. What matters is the Soldier hasn’t even looked at him. Normally, it’s impossible to make him stop canvassing his mission commander.
“Sir,” Mitchell and Harper squeak in unison.
“Pick that shit up! He’s not allowed regular food,” Brock orders.
It’s not the agents who answer him, though.
“Treat,” the Soldier says in his accented Russian. And he can’t tell if it’s the Soldier’s creeptastic flat affect or actually intentional, but there’s no rising intonation to make that a question.
A single eye peeks up through the Soldier’s wild matt of hair, piercing and cold.
“Treat,” the Soldier repeats in English, and picks up a single chip, hard enough to crush it.
Fill: Pedigree (7/?)
The resultant creamy drink looks almost like a Muscle Milk. Some similar kind of gainer shake, maybe. It smells a little like vanilla, but mostly chalk and powdered vitamins and concentrated gym rat tears. This, this is what they have an entire case of in the back of the van.
That poor son of a bitch. Brock shakes his head and tucks the empty packet into the pocket of his coveralls for secure disposal later.
The Subway is to the right once he comes out of the bathroom, built into the back wall of a grungy convenience store. Mitchell is perusing a nearby rack of ‘VIrginia Wines!!’ as if they’re not goddamn on duty. Brock gives him a look and brushes past to put in his sandwich order. The kid behind the counter looks barely old enough to shave, let alone be shaving meat.
“Hey, man.”
Harper is in line behind him all of a sudden, fidgeting with a bag of Fritos.
“Yeah?”
Brock adopts a similarly casual stance, gives the agent a working-bros nod. To an outside observer, they should look like two Joes at lunch.
“Since we stopped already,” Harper asks. “Who’s driving next?”
“I am,” Brock frowns. “Why do you need to know?”
Harper’s eyes flick briefly to the sandwich artist. The Subway kid isn’t even paying attention, messing with the oven for Rollin’s sandwich.
“Can I call shotgun, at least? Kind of sick of hanging out with Bingo.”
“Bingo,” Brock says flatly because what the hell. That is an absolutely terrible fucking dog name.
Harper must mistake his blankness for rage, because the agent starts back pedaling like a politician.
“It’s cool if I can’t! Just thought we could change up. Or trade.”
“Sorry man, no can do,” Brock says as sweetly as possible, because he’s itching to snarl ‘permission denied’ instead. He suspects Harper’s only springing this now because they’re with civilians, and there’s no way Brock can chew him out properly without blowing their cover. And he’s willing to tolerate a transfer being freaked out (especially given the bizarre kinky dog pound), but at some point, Harper is going to have to deal with the Soldier’s improbable existence. He doesn’t have much of a life expectancy if he can’t.
“Hit up Big Jay, maybe he’ll trade?” Brock adds. ‘Jay Romero’ is Rollins’ fake name for the road; they stick with initials that match their real ones so nobody gets confused.
“Okay, cool.”
Harper’s expression is indiscernible behind his paper mask, but his nod is amicable enough. Rollins will probably tell him to fuck off too, probably in graphic detail, but that will be a good life lesson in not being a little bitch. Brock swings up to the register to pay for his sandwiches. By the time he gets Rollins’ Coke from the fountain, Harper has taken off like his ass is on fire.
Whatever. His funeral. Brock does a quick time check and is pleased to see he’s got more than enough time to grab some canned lightning for the road. The way the rotation goes, he and Rollins get the ass-crack of dawn shift. He picks up a few Monsters and those bottled Frappuccinos no one admits they like, and juggles the whole mess out to the diesel pumps where the van is pulled up and fueling.
Rollins is standing by the van with his baseball cap pulled low, watching the gallons tick slowly up. The mobile strike unit is a beast that takes forever to fill.
“Sandwich,” Brock grunts and waves the bag at him. It’s dangling from his left fist, but his arms are too full of drinks to hand it over.
“Thanks.” Rollins relieves him of the Subway bag and fishes his Coke out from the crook of Brock’s right elbow.
“Get the door, I gotta feed the Soldier.”
Rollins takes point at an angle to the back bumper so his bulk can block the pump security cam. He waits until the Volvo at the next pump pulls away before tugging the left door just far enough for Brock to barrell inside.
Brock dumps his strategic reserve of caffeine into the open case of nasty Soldier shake mixes, but hangs on to the Camelbak. He’s so focused on stashing the drinks that it takes him a second to realize what’s going on.
Harper and Mitchell are frozen by the Soldier’s cage, staring intensely at something just in front of them. A yellow-and-red Subway napkin is sitting just in front of the open cage door, bearing a small pile of potato chips.
The Soldier is stretching metal fingers toward them with the same caution you’d use to defuse a bomb.
“Who the shit,” Brock begins, and stops himself. It doesn’t matter, he realizes with rising alarm, who thought it was a good idea to give unapproved food to the Soldier. What matters is the Soldier hasn’t even looked at him. Normally, it’s impossible to make him stop canvassing his mission commander.
“Sir,” Mitchell and Harper squeak in unison.
“Pick that shit up! He’s not allowed regular food,” Brock orders.
It’s not the agents who answer him, though.
“Treat,” the Soldier says in his accented Russian. And he can’t tell if it’s the Soldier’s creeptastic flat affect or actually intentional, but there’s no rising intonation to make that a question.
A single eye peeks up through the Soldier’s wild matt of hair, piercing and cold.
“Treat,” the Soldier repeats in English, and picks up a single chip, hard enough to crush it.