Part 2 - Chatter 12

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Alistair jolted awake from a nap and heard unfamiliar voices. The sound of boot steps intensified and disorientated, he panicked. Launching himself to the door, he crouched down and inched it ajar whilst Balderick bobbed a safe distance behind.

"Shush," Alistair hushed. Balderick perched on Alistair's shoulder, his beady eye trying to peer out the crack. The door shoved open; Alistair tumbled over and sprawled across the floor; Balderick startled and Chelsea stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips.

"Come on sleepyhead, the lads are here," she beamed excitedly before checking Alistair's face. "Are...are you wearing eyeliner?"

"No!" Alistair hotly refuted, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve, hoping she wouldn't see his sparkly lip-gloss. Chelsea knew a lie when she heard one, nonetheless threw out a helping hand, assisting Alistair back to his feet. In the hall, men in armoured uniforms and leather battle jackets advanced in pairs. Glowing blue like electric warriors, their weary shoulders hauled slung pulse weapons, webbing harnesses and backpacks filled with gear and provisions. As they marched past towards the barracks, Chelsea dragged Alistair in to a nook on the landing, admiring the men. A grizzled sergeant, chewing on a cigar, barked orders.

"Cheer down, cheer down! Stow your gear, rifles in the armoury. Come on girls, move it, move it," she cajoled gruffly, counting heads. "You know Mr. Essex doesn't like weapons of mass distraction in 'ere...come on, rack 'em up."

"Why sooooooo cranky, Sarge," one cheeky soldier joked and Sergeant Roberta 'Black Dog' Paul-Jones raised a clenched fist. Alistair had palpitations – it was the voice from the Underground, and he was still moaning.

"Button it Rocket!" Black Dog grizzled, gnashing on the soggy cigar.

"Sarge, I didn't sign up for this."

"What did you sign up for?" Black Dog demanded. "Because I'd like to find your recruitment officer and kick them in the haggards."

"I signed up for travel and adventure," the soldier responded curtly.

"You have your Octo-pass. What more could you want?" the Sarge grizzled.

"A little TLC wouldn't go astray," Rocket pouted as he dropped his crate to the floor with a thud. "I'm stuffed!"

"Rocket, shut yer gob right now...or my fist is going to find a new home in an orifice. And Rocket? What the faff are you doing dropping that crate of Liquo???"

Rocket kicked the crate with his toe.

"This stuff?" he asked suicidally; Black Dog failed to flinch.

"Sarge, all this pent up aggression is doing your cardiovascular system no help. I think you really should book in to visit the quack."

Black Dog displayed her worn knuckles. This battered soldier was humourless and not one to be taken lightly as she growled at Rocket.

"One more smart word you ginger idiot and I'll knock your socks off, kicking you way all the way to that crowded house you crawled out of back in NZ."

"Violence won't solve the world's ills," Rocket said. Exhausted, Black Dog loosened her helmet straps, dropped the cigar and ground it out with her heel and left, muttering a string of colourful expletives.

Alistair looked at all the soldiers' gear; he curiously poked his head in to the hitherto locked armoury as the empty racks quickly filled with pulse rifles, armour, strings of grenades and battle shields and helmets. Black Dog eyed the boy and shooed him like a fly.

"Move on son, nothing to see here."

"This little one was just getting out of your way," Chelsea smiled, dragging her friend towards the barracks.

"Miss Rose," Black Dog winked; Chelsea saluted warming the woman's heart. "You be sure not to get trampled underfoot. We've got some tired troopers and volatile cocktails in the coat rack."

"No problemo," Chelsea smiled. Black Dog rubbed her furrowed brow, storming off and barking more laments at her rag-tag crew of soldiers. With cutting edge gear, Black Dog was determined to mould her crew in to something more than naughty boys playing soldier. Sure they were very good at playing soldier, but geez, she wished they would grow up.

"Let's go," Chelsea told Alistair, pushing him over to Dorm Room 4. Alistair followed as a group of soldiers tossed their personal gear about, made themselves at home and kicked off their boots, bickering over the three sets of bunk beds. Rocket pressed a button on his armour and the blue light dimmed and the armour loosened around his frame. Spying Chelsea, Rocket threw his hands out.

"Chelsea," he welcomed. She ran in to hug the soldier who swept her up and cuddled her. Another man, lying across his mattress was shuffling a deck of cards; a third prospected the gaps on his teeth with a toothpick. The soldiers were all happy to see Chelsea as she made her way around the group of six soldiers throwing equally reciprocated high-fives. Alistair lurked in the background and partially out of view.

"Who's your boyfriend?" Rocket noted, flicking his chin in Alistair's direction. "He's quieter than Flash."

"Oh that's Alistair Raven," she introduced, before correcting the soldier. "And Rocket, he's not my boyfriend!!!" Collectively, the soldiers all shot each other knowing looks and mocked her, which flustered Chelsea.

"Alistair, come on, get in here," she ordered as he peered around the door quietly entering the dorm room. "Come on Alistair, stop being such a nega-tron," she said keenly like a proud kid sister. The interminable complainer Rocket, was a thirty-something, ginger haired man who pumped Alistair's hand and spoke with a his distinctive native twang.

"Hey cuz, nice to meet you. Corporeal Elliott Savage's the name, surviving is my game. Code sign 'Rocket'. This group of rough-heads here is the 'Dog Squad'" Rocket boasted. Alistair waved realising Rocket seemed fairly jovial and harmless and didn't bother to mention his earlier encounter with them in the Underground tunnel, just in case it raise suspicion.

"'The Dog Squad'? More like 'sleeper blokes'," a sour soldier snickered as he walked past the dorm carrying a pile of fresh towels.

"Sod off Sunburn you taciturn tick," Rocket called back, before confiding in the children. "Geez, that guy is such a downer."

"Rocket's from the All Black Ops," Chelsea enthused. "He's a real tough nut." Rocket's teammates chuckled at Chelsea's summation of their friend and a thin, though rugged and battle worn, early fortysomething man, stepped forth to shake Alistair's hand.

"I'd be Sgt Dickinson Harris, code sign 'Thatcher'. You'll find all of us go by call-signs, which can be confusing for the uninitiated. But you'll catch on. As for this mob of miscreants, sadly they have been foisted upon me and are under my command."

The squaddies all blew raspberry tarts with the their mouths, showing absolutely no respect to their boss. Shaking his head despondently as the din died down, Thatcher took it upon himself to acquaint Alistair with the rest of his team.

"This mad dog is Roger 'Pinball' Entwistle." A smaller man with a shaved head and goatee grunted, rubbing the side of his nose. He briefly bothered to peer up from his sketchpad as he worked on another of his caricatures.

"What are we even doing here?" Pinball moaned, itching to get back out on the road and finding himself amongst it.

"Mustn't grumble Pinball," Thatcher advised. "And try to be a little more upbeat, yeah? The scuffles can wait. No need to be the hero too early."

"I was just being friendly," Pinball sighed, concentrating on his drawing, especially the subject's distinctive eyes. Thatcher moved on.

"Softy here is Dick 'Fish' Trewavas."

The paler man eyed the boy disinterestedly, grunted and continued his bicep curls. A taller, handsome, dark haired lad with big hands and a poncey quiff threw out his hand.

"Awroight?" he asked in a sing-song Brummie accent brushing biscuit crumbs from the corners of his mouth. "Ow bin ya?  I'm Simon Taylor."

"This 'suave' chap is better known as 'Arcadia'," Thatcher sighed, watching Arcadia tuck his tube of Jaffa-cakes under his armpit and almost shake off Alistair's arm.

"Arcadia, you can let go," Thatcher said, rolling his eyes.

"Beggin' yows," Arcadia stumbled, his mouth full. "Ahmm oongry like the wolf," he admitted before quickly jamming another biscuit in his mouth. Thatcher snatched away the tube of Jaffa Cakes and proceeded to whack Arcadia with it.

"I've told you a million times lad, you don't bloody need all those excess kilojoules! I'm amazed you can keep your figure eating all that food!"

Arcadia swiped back his booty.

"It's nah junk," Arcadia contested, sulking. "And ah've only had a couple or three."

"Don't worry about Arcadia," Rocket winked, preparing to wind up his gormless colleague. "He's a neurotic outsider, a real Nigel no friends. I don't even know why we keep him around.  Oi, Arcadia, I think you might have hair out of place."

Fastidious and precise, Arcadia checked himself in the mirror.

"Quit it Fanta-pants," Arcadia reacted tetchily, combing his fingers through his mane whilst Rocket struggled with an imaginary fishing rod, reeling in his mate.

"Arcadia was a fly-boy; a hot-shot RAF pilot. But he's got Daltonism. With his career in tatters, they redeployed him to us. That's why he's still got that pretty boy hair cut and those soft palms - never does any heavy lifting."

The last soldier to be greeted was Flash. Flash possessed countless circular brands pocking the flesh of his cheeks, brow and neck whilst pinprick scars dotted his lips. His eyes flickered, hiding an inner turmoil.  Silently, Flash unbuckled his helmet, and a giant afro of frizzy hair sprung out in all directions. He wrinkled his nose and eyed the boy a little cautiously. Remaining mute, he did not shake Alistair's hand; instead he opened up a well-thumbed sly-fi novel – Europa and the Pirate Twins - and picked up where he had left off. Oddly, Flash was like a shadow, just in the periphery. You felt safe because you knew he was there, but he went mostly unnoticed no matter how stoically important he was to the group all the same.

"Still rivers run deep, eh Deacy?" Rocket joked.

Flash peered over the paperback, not because he was irked but more so because he was mentally deciphering the hidden clues literally buried in the mathematically sequenced text of the sly-fi novel, a genre of fiction popular some thirty years earlier but now considered somewhat naff.

Thatcher rebuked Rocket, but it didn't stop the Kiwi from snorting like he thought it was hilarious.

"Stop being an ass," Thatcher chastised. Flash ignored them all, settling himself on the mattress and engrossing himself in the story. Thatcher, realising Rocket would give Flash no peace, began disassembling his side arms, laying the parts out on the blanket and promptly set about cleaning his weapon.

Biting, Flash signed something unflattering and Rocket retorted.

"Sticks and stones my friend, sticks and stones!"

"Don't worry Flash, you know what they say about the quiet ones," Chelsea suggested and Flash finally grinned, and thanked her with a tip of his head.

"It's nice to finally meet you all in person," Alistair said politely.

Rocket took Chelsea and Alistair aside as Arcadia hauled himself up on to his bed, grumbling that the dorm room already looked like a pigsty and where in hell was the draught coming from.

"How are things; heard anything?" Rocket quietly directed to Chelsea.

"Good. Nothing," she replied succinctly. "You?"

Rocket rolled his eyes.

"Your old man would kill me if I blabbed."

"Not you too," Chelsea sighed and changed her tune. "Did you pick anything up while you were away?"

"You still owe me for that last box of posh chocolates I snuck you! How soon we forget," Rocket snorted. Chelsea brought her hands together and began signing to Flash. He shook his head and she pouted. Rocket laughed and whipped a chocolate bar out of his webbing and hid it behind his back. Chelsea played little missy innocent and Rocket brought the gift around, holding out a King-size Neptune bar.

"ROCKET!" she squealed. "My favourite!"

"See, I do keep my promises!" Rocket smiled.

Chelsea welcomed the gift, cooing with gratitude as Black Dog barged down the hall with a stick, banging the walls. She stood imposingly at the door, glaring

"Get your backsides to the lecture room ASAP," she ordered. "Santa's coming to town and Col Rose wants to make sure we've all been naughty, not nice."

"Yes ma'am," Rocket limply saluted, his feet aching.

"Snap to it!!!" Black Dog bellowed slapping her hands together quickly and loudly as the men jumped to attention.

"And Rocket...no wise mouthing to Col Rose tonight. You know the next time you gob off I'll shove my boot so far up your..."

"You never know Black Dog, I might enjoy that," Rocket said sarcastically. "We'll see you later," he said to Chelsea as he moved past her with the rest of the squad, before calling back over his shoulder. "And try to share that Neptune bar with Alistair."

Chelsea frowned at Alistair as she slid the chocolate bar in to her pocket. Alistair appeared disappointed.

"Don't even think about it," she warned. "Chocolate, me and sharing...no way!"

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