Kickass Anthology (4 page)

Taking the three bottles back to the pit, he poured them all in to the acid. As soon as he had all three bottles in, the acid right in front of him started to grow solid. There wasn’t enough to neutralize the whole pit, but it stretched far enough that he could walk to the other side safety.

Quickly, Xan moved across the pit, hoping the chemicals held together long enough for him to get across safely.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the other side unharmed. He looked up at the clock. He only had fifteen minutes left.

In front of him, arrows shot out of the walls at an alarming rate. Xan saw a pattern to the arrows, but it would require someone to be really fast. But any despair he felt was quickly squashed. There had been a way around every other obstacle so far. So there was one here too.

Xan looked around. There. There was a ladder leading up the wall. Xan’s arms still hurt a little, but he went over and started to climb. It was only about five meters high, but by the time he reached the top, Xan was panting again. He thought another attack might be coming on, but he forced it down. He didn’t have enough time for it.

Carefully, Xan stood up on the small platform that sat at the top of the ladder. Looking around, he saw a narrow ledge that ran around the room. Stepping to the side, he slowly walked sideways on the ledge that led him over the deadly arrows.

When the ledge ran out, there was another ladder that took him down to the main level past all of the arrows.

Xan looked up at the clock when he got down to the bottom. Less than ten minutes to go. Xan had reached the end of the room. There was a small box sitting on a podium. It was right there for the taking. Xan almost ran right for it. But it was too easy. Xan walked back a little and picked up one of the arrows that had fallen on the ground, making sure to stay clear of the ones still firing.

Taking the arrow, Xan shot it at the podium. As expected, it hit an invisible force field before landing at its base. It looked like a person could pass through it, but it would hurt like hell. This was probably why Jace was shaking for a few days after.

Xan picked up a few arrows and threw them at the force field all around the podium, hoping to find a weak spot, but there wasn’t one. He would have to cross through if he wanted to get to his goal.

The thought of having to cross the force field scared Xan, but he wasn’t going to give up. It wasn’t going to kill him to cross. And if all he had to do was go through a little force field so he could spend the rest of his life with Jace, then he would.

Taking a deep breath, Xan walked straight for the podium. The first shock of electricity coursing through his body was the most painful thing he had ever endured. It felt like his whole body was on fire. But he didn’t stop. If he stopped, he would never get there.

Three steps were all it took to be free of the shock, but it was the longest three steps of his life. It didn’t matter.

Reaching out a shaky hand, Xan opened the box and pulled out a necklace. It was made of gold and had a medallion hanging from the chain, carved in the shape of Janix’s symbol. It was a necklace he had seen many times before on his parents, grandparents and, most recently, on Jace. It was the necklace that every adult in Janix wore. It was a symbol that he had completed the Janiman.

A loud buzzer sounded and a door opened behind him. Turning, necklace still clutched in his hand, Xan saw the Elder walk into the room.

“You have done well, Xan. Better than most. Only a handful of participants find the path you took to get the end. Most try to barrel their way past the obstacles. But you approached them all with logic and reason. And, despite your body’s difficulties, you never gave up. And for that, you will be greatly rewarded. You will be given full citizenship into Janix and a job that is worthy of your intelligence. Congratulations and welcome to Janix.”

Xan smiled as he heard the Elder’s proclamation. At the Elder’s gesture, Xan walked down the stairs and through the double doors. Just outside the room was everyone that Xan loved. His entire family, a few close friends and, of course, Jace. They all applauded when Xan came through the doors, a full member of Janix.

But Xan didn’t care as long as he ran for Jace’s outstretched arms. Jumping into his boyfriend’s embrace, Xan finally allowed himself a moment of relief. He was a full member of Janix. He could have the life he always wanted. And Jace would be with him forever.

“I told you, you could do it,” Jace whispered into his ear.

“I know. And I think your belief in me was one of the only reasons I got through.”

“Don’t worry, Xan. I’ll always be there to remind you.”

Xan just smiled. Despite all of the doubt and fear, he had overcome the Janiman. And he would be able to reap the rewards for the rest of his life.

AUTHOR

Sophie Bonaste
is a novelist who never set out to be a novelist. As a child, she wanted to a Broadway actress and spent her childhood in numerous productions. But when adulthood set in and reality took over, Sophie chose to give up the theatre for a steady paycheck and instead turned to writing as a creative outlet. She stumbled into the M/M genre through fanfiction and never looked back. Sophie is quite happy with her change in artistic expression and doesn't plan to stop writing for a long time.

A self-proclaimed nerd, Sophie is an avid fan of all things Star Wars and Harry Potter. (Sophie is a member of the Slytherin house, for those who were wondering.) Sophie also spends many hours watching and re-watching nerdy television shows. When she is not obsessing over the latest and greatest in nerdy entertainment, Sophie can be found screaming at her television during American football games. (Go Pack Go!) Sophie currently lives in Pennsylvania, about twenty minutes from her childhood town of The Middle of Nowhere.

Follow her on Twitter @SophieBonaste. Her many books are available on Amazon.

Jackie Keswick

"Did ye see this? DID. YE. SEE. THIS?! What the fuck's this supposed to be?"

The rant rang through the dozing house, soaked the morning stillness with tension and even penetrated the cloak of concentration Jack had draped around himself. He slid the laptop from his thighs onto the low coffee table and glared at the half-formed algorithm on the screen. Something about it felt wrong, and he'd just caught the first faint glimpse of what it could be when the ranting voice had interrupted his thoughts.

Growling quietly, Jack stretched his arms over his head and twisted from side to side until his back and neck responded with a satisfying crack. Ten o'clock
was
a ridiculously early hour to be awake, especially on a Sunday. Since he had made the effort to get out of bed at a time when most of his housemates had only just returned from a night out clubbing, he wanted to be left in peace to get some work done.

The voices in the hallway – one obnoxious, loud and Irish, the other quiet and apologetic with a broad West Country accent – cut through Jack's focus and the level of venom in the Irish rant caught him by surprise.

He traced his fingertips over the new ink at his left temple, hoping to regain his concentration. The redness had receded in the last few days, replaced by a gentle intermittent itch that signalled healing. Soon, the last tactile reminders of his decision would be gone. Not for the first time Jack wondered if something that left a scar, like a cut or a brand, would have been a better choice than a tattoo.

"Ye blitherin' imbecile!"

Declan Flanagan's voice rose in pitch until it broke on the cusp of his yell. The big Irishman was loud by default, but Jack couldn't recall ever hearing him as irate as this morning.

"What t'hell's goin' on out there?" a grumpy voice demanded from somewhere to Jack's right.

Despite his irritation at having his work interrupted by a yelling Irishman, Jack could take the time to appreciate the picture his flatmate presented as he leaned against the bedroom door. Eyes barely open, tribal tats on display and long crimson mane in wild tangles around his head, Tom Walken looked like a work of art that had stepped straight off the canvas and taken shape in their sitting room. That vibrant hair and the abundance of ink had been two of the reasons why Jack had arranged to share rooms with the geologist when he'd enrolled to study for his doctorate.

That the redhead was one of the most genuine people Jack had met in a while was a bonus. Tom never held a grudge, which worked to Jack's advantage when he buried himself in work to the exclusion of even food and conversation. Or when he came home night after night, so drunk he could barely walk.

Not that he'd done any of the coming home late and drunk for a few weeks. But even back when he had, Tom had never complained and never questioned. He'd just ensured a ready supply of coffee and aspirin when Jack crawled from under the covers.

Yep, Tom Walken was a treasure of a flatmate, even if he looked decidedly disgruntled at having his well-earned rest interrupted by a noisy argument outside their door. Jack wanted to keep watching the other man, but the unfinished algorithm on his laptop screen pulled on his mind like a magnet on iron filings. He traced back through the logic, hoping to find the point where he'd gone astray.

"Sounds like the Irish goon's throwing a tantrum," Tom opined after listening to the racket outside their door for a moment longer.

"Hm."

The monosyllabic answer didn't faze the redhead. He crossed the room and poked his head out of the door, listening to the voices down the hall. "Sounds like Paul shrunk his lucky rugby shirt," he snickered after a moment.

"Excellent."

"Did you even hear what I said?"

"No," Jack growled when the thread he thought he'd found in his logic escaped like smoke through an open window yet again.

Tom only laughed, smacked Jack's shoulder on the way to his bedroom to get dressed, and left Jack to stare in dismay at his screen.

The argument outside his door hadn't just disrupted his industrious morning and derailed his train of thought. Flanagan's epithet, though not directed at Jack, had brought back memories of that
other
argument, memories he'd spent months trying to deflect with constant activity, drown in a flood of alcohol and smother under a myriad of meaningless encounters. Nothing had worked, until he'd finally heeded the words Gareth Flynn, his army captain, had spoken to him the morning that Jack had walked away from everything he'd ever wanted.

Remember what we taught you.

The pain in his heart hadn't left him. Nor had the cold and lonely feeling that had grown with every step he had taken away from the barracks. But Jack was finally past feeling sorry for himself. He was ready to remember Gareth Flynn and ready to live up to his CO's expectations. His fingers caressed the tattoo at his temple as he pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.

He needed coffee.

And Declan Flanagan needed to shut up.

Jack headed outside, only to find that Flanagan had acquired an audience. Judging by the aggravated looks, Declan's howls hadn't just disturbed Jack and woken Jack's flatmate. Everyone else was up, too. But as usual, nobody dared say a word to the big, belligerent idiot.

The sound of flesh hitting flesh was as unexpected, as the dull thud of a head hitting the plaster wall.

A little alarmed, Jack shoved through the onlookers to find one of the first year students backed against the wall by a mountain of Irish muscle.

Paul Grabin, first year physics if Jack remembered rightly, looked as if he needed more time to grow into his gangly frame. He also had the hapless wariness of a fawn that screamed
away from home for the first time
like nothing else Jack had ever seen. The look of shock on the kid's face right then was almost comical. But there was nothing funny about the bruise that started to bloom on Paul's cheek and the blood on his lip.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Jack shoved Flanagan back, not caring that the man almost landed in the far wall from the force of the push.

"He ruined me lucky rugby shirt and it's match day!"

"What are you, six? Incapable of doing your own fucking laundry?"

Declan shrugged one shoulder. "Why have a dog and bark yerself?"

Jack's neck heated at the callous declaration. Declan had never tried any of this shit on him, but he clearly assumed that Jack would stand by and let it happen. Jack swallowed the sudden bitter taste in his mouth. He must have had his head up his own ass far too long if he'd given Flanagan that impression. Shame mixed with fury and the urge to tattoo Declan's face with his fist rose as powerful as the tide.

Not that he could act on it. But hell, did he want to.

With a deep, settling breath, Jack turned his head and regarded the skinny kid behind him. "You okay?"

Paul nodded and sidled around Jack, trying to put as much distance between himself and Declan Flanagan as was possible in the narrow space. The gawkers didn't make it easy, though everyone in the small crowd had been on the receiving end of Declan's malice at one time or another since they moved into the house. They just stood and watched, until Tom's tall frame pushed them aside.

"You're a fucking sack of shit, Flanagan."

"Ye've got room to talk. If ye don't like what I do, why don't ye go find somewhere else to live? But hey, ye canna afford to, can ye now? See, me folks look after me. I'm not some loser whose family canna be bothered to even acknowledge him."

Already irritated by the disturbance Flanagan had caused, and now delayed from getting his caffeine fix, Jack welcomed the heat in his gut and the metallic taste at the back of his throat. It had been a while since he had cared enough to drag himself from the pit he'd been wallowing in. Anger, even if caused by someone as pointless as Declan Flanagan, suddenly seemed like a much needed wakeup call.

Jack was sure of it, especially when his friend's fierce glare fell to ashes in front of his eyes, when the redhead's expression grew first pained, then distant in the face of Flanagan's slur. Tom's hands curled into fists for but a moment, then his shoulders slumped and he turned his back on Flanagan.

"Just because ye're a fag, ye don't have to be a wuss, Walken."

Tom's tall form froze mid-stride for a heartbeat. Then he continued on his way.

And Jack had suddenly seen and heard enough.

Lost in memories and self-pity, he had paid scant attention to anyone around him since he moved in. But nowhere was it written that he couldn't change that. Or that he had to stand by and let an entitled asshole make the lives of those around him miserable.

That wasn't the way he worked. And not what the man he still regarded as his CO would expect from him.

As Declan crowed his victory over Tom with a triumphant grin, Jack bowed briefly and casually stretched out a hand. In one smooth move he took hold of Declan's arm and slung him across the corridor and into the far wall as if he weighed no more than a goose down duvet.

Jack heard the loud smack of Declan's body hitting the plaster, but he didn't bother to look over. He merely dipped another little bow and turned away.

"Mind your manners, bogtrotter."

"YOU shouldn't have done that."

Tom sprawled on the broad corduroy sofa, eyes creased almost shut against the midday sun, while Jack leaned on the counter dividing the kitchen area from the living room of their small, two-bedroom apartment. He kept careful watch over his steadily growing caffeine supply, grabbing the glass carafe from the hotplate the moment it finished brewing.

"He had it coming," he said as he filled an obscenely large blue mug and took a first careful sip of treacle-strong, black java.

"Not arguing. But Flanagan holds a grudge for forever and a day. I'm sure he's looking for ways to make your life hell as we speak."

"He's welcome to try." Jack didn't bother explaining that his and Flanagan's definitions of hell were sure to differ. And that Flanagan's version couldn't even ruffle the tips of Jack's hair.

"Don't underestimate him," Tom cautioned. "He has clout."

"Clout my ass. It's money he has and a damn big mouth. He's so desperate for attention, I bet all he ever got from
his folks
," Jack curled his fingers into air quotes beside his head, "was a stack of dosh. Come to think of it, I wouldn't wanna talk to him either." His most urgent caffeine craving slaked, Jack refilled the large mug and left the kitchenette. "Why do you let him walk all over you?" he asked as he settled in the armchair by the window that was his favourite, cradling his mug.

"I'm... not comfortable fighting with Flanagan."

"Hey, I grant you that the ass is built like a brick shed, but I've seen you in the gym. You can take him."

"Not the point." Tom Walken looked anywhere but at Jack, but after a long quiet moment he started to speak. "What he said... Flanagan... it's true. My parents died in a car crash when I was twelve. Nobody else from my family wanted me, so I ended up in an orphanage."

Jack swallowed the snarky comment that was on the tip of his tongue.
Don't judge others by your experiences. Judge them by theirs.
Another bit of wisdom he'd learned over the years, from the first person to give a shit about him, this time. Seeing the pain in Tom's cinnamon eyes, he thought it was worth taking that to heart.

"And that bothered you," he tested the waters.

"Hell yes, it bothered me," Tom flung back. "It would have bothered you, too."

That wasn't likely, seeing his addict mother had bartered him for a hit one Christmas, but Jack kept that to himself. He couldn't recall if his mother's disregard had hurt him back then. But he remembered how it had felt when Rio Palmer had shown an interest in him instead of looking through him like everybody else he'd encountered. Jack had been suspicious and wary, but Rio was made of the same brand of stubborn as Jack. He'd done more than show an interest in a homeless boy squatting in his basement. He'd fed Jack, taught him and offered him a home, despite Jack's protestations. Or maybe because of them.

If Tom had never had that...then it made sense that he stood up for others but walked away when it came to standing up for himself.

"I see where you're coming from," Jack said seriously. "But let me tell you something: the only one who even remotely cares about you being an orphan is you. 's not as if it's carved into your forehead."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Jack cheered mentally when he heard the growl in Tom's voice. There was a well of fire in the man he was coming to regard as a friend. Even an ass such as Declan Flanagan wouldn't be able to quench that blaze. "The accident that killed your parents made you an orphan. That, and the rest of your family being a bunch of asswipes. It didn't make you not worth defending. That's something you're doing to yourself."

"You've got room to talk."

"About this? Yes, I do. I had a drug addicted whore for a mother," Jack snapped, brutally honest. "I've lived on the streets. But that's nobody's business but mine and I'm not letting it define me." Jack couldn't explain why he was sharing details he'd never confided to anyone but Rio, but seeing the ashamed, defeated look fade from Tom's dark gaze made spilling his guts somehow acceptable. "You're worth having choices. You're worth defending. It's easy to stand up for others. Not standing up for yourself is just stupid. And if I've learned one thing about you, it's that you're not a stupid man.