Kid Ballistic: Reloading
Snap. Click. Press. Snap. Click. Press.
There were few things in life Sid enjoyed more than loosing bullets. Only making them came close.
Snap. Click. Press.
This was a "day off". He usually ordered his ammunition custom from discreet smiths. But for his special concoctions, he was happy to spend days hand-preparing them. Even the Duke of Demolitions needed a break.
Each round, he measured the powder, and funneled it into the casings. He loaded the casings, one-by-one, onto the press, placing the round inside, completing the ritual with a steady and firm pull of the lever.
Snap. Click. Press.
It was tedious to some. But Sid got lost in the routine. He had been pressing and loading cartridges for the last eight hours, aided by staunch allies: espresso, cigarillos, and at the moment, Nat King Cole.
His heart made double time on caffeine, his head swam dizzy from the sleep deprivation. And, shirtless as he was, his body wore a film of powder, grease, and sweat. He hadn't eaten in twelve hours, cooped up in his dark, windowless basement.
It was bliss, of a sort. Now, when he slept, it would be that much more restful. The coming shower: more magnificent. The buffalo chicken pizza making him salivate all night would be the best he'd ever had.
Not to mention, there was time to think. There was a strange serenity to it.
Snap. Click. Press.
Most often, he'd reminisce about his days on foreign roads, sweating in noisy jungles, burning in broken deserts. Some of it was glorious. Some of it was beautiful. But often it was frightening, confusing, and bittersweet.
A pit in Sid's stomach grew. And it wasn't for the buffalo chicken pizza.
Snap. Click. Press.
In those days, his father had been his only ally. He was the Boss; he taught Sid everything he knew. The Boss kept him alive, because there were rules. One of them was "Don't trust anyone". It was self evident to anyone living "the life". You had to watch your back. You had to count on yourself.
His father demonstrated it better than any pirate or any despot Sid had met.
Snap. Click. Press.
Because, if your father doesn't stick around, who will?
Sid's ballistic thoughts raced around the subject, recalling Friday night's events. His eyes, as fast as his neurons, spied the Progeny communicator on the work bench. He didn't think about it much when he accepted the thing. Like most of his decisions, it was a reflex.
Sid never had friends. It was forbidden. The Boss said they were superfluous. He said they could be dangerous. Is that what this meant? This team? Was Sid breaking the rules?
Sid's father could be anywhere. Russia. Uganda. Outer space. But his voice was right here with him. It was louder than the press, the music, and all other thoughts in his skull.
Snap. Click. Press.
There. Done. For now. Sid arched his back, eliciting a few dull cracks from an aggravated spine. He stood, perhaps too fast: his eyes fuzzed and he held onto the press for support. Hands snapped his water bottle from the workbench, and feet shuffled over to his cot. He drank deep from the lukewarm water that still hit his empty stomach like ice.
From torn, denim pockets, he produced a black matte zippo and tan cigarillo. A snap and spark later, and KB downed sweet tobacco smoke, letting it loose through his nostrils. Now he was truly alone with his thoughts. A moment without work, without the Itch. It wasn't entirely comfortable.
Sid puffed again, and ran dirty fingers through dirty, messed hair. The floor was cool on his feet, bare and tired, though he had been sitting for hours.
Friday had been a good night, injuries aside. He pictured each of his new "teammates"; vivid, moving portraits in his head. A smile crossed his face: he wasn't sure he liked them all. But despite the throng of personalities, the anxiety of new people, the post-robot coffee was...
The twisting in his gut relaxed a little as he found the right word, simple as it was: It was nice. It was interesting. When had been the last time he was with others his age? Just talking?
"You can't trust anyone."
Sid turned and flopped onto his cot. He'd launder it later.
Blue eyes locked on the ceiling above, drab and dim as it was. There was another puff of smoke, before the gunslinger reached down and put out the smoldering coffin nail on the cold cement. The weight of rest was beginning to push everything aside. Tony Bennett sang him a lullaby about "the Good Life" in delectable hi-fi, and the Sandman tucked him in. A last, waking thought punched its way through the growing slumber.
He was gonna argue with the Boss on this one. He had already added to the list of rules since going it alone. One more couldn't hurt.
"See what happens."
