Chapter 4: The Hideout
The silence in Red Hook’s shop was heavier than the anvil. Fred’s gear—a worn duffel with a couple changes of clothes, a basic tool roll, some protein bars stolen from the back—lay on the workbench. It looked pathetic. This bench had held the components of his blaster, each piece humming with potential. Now it held socks.
Red Hook leaned against the doorframe, wiping his hands on a rag that had been grey a decade ago. He didn’t say the obvious things. Be careful. Write sometimes. Don’t be a stranger. He just watched Fred zip the bag.
“The Shane kid,” Red Hook finally grunted. “He’s the real article. But he’s also just a kid. They all are.”
“I know,” Fred said, checking the strap on his blaster’s holster for the tenth time. The leather was still stiff, the red barrel a shocking streak of color against his oil-darkened jeans. He slid it home, the weight settling on his left hip with a finality that made his stomach clench.
“You made a good tool,” Red Hook continued, nodding at the blaster. “Don’t let the tool use you. You’re the craftsman. Remember that.”
Fred nodded, throat tight. He shouldered the duffel. “Thanks, Red. For everything.”
“Don’t thank me. Go be a pain in Blakk’s ass. That’s thanks enough.”
A soft, whimpering chirp sounded from Fred’s shoulder. Voltage was nestled there, his usual vibrant blue seeming dimmer, his little body curled inward as he looked around the shop—at the forge, the scattering of unfinished projects, the familiar, greasy comfort of it.
“I know, buddy,” Fred murmured, scratching the slug’s head with a fingertip. “Me too.”
The door creaked open, framing Eli against the cavern’s perpetual gloom. “You set?” he asked, his voice bright, cutting through the sentimental haze.
At the sound of it, Voltage uncurled. He perked up, his yellow eyes focusing on Eli, on the flicker of orange flame peeking from the collar of his jacket. He let out a brighter, curious chirp.
“Yeah,” Fred said, forcing a grin. “Just saying goodbye to the old grease-pit.”
He crossed the floor, his boots echoing on the stone he’d swept a thousand times. He didn’t look back. Stepping out into the damp air of Quiet Lawn felt like stepping off a ledge.
Eli fell into step beside him as they walked towards the others, who were already mounted on their Mecha-Beasts near the cavern’s eastern tunnel mouth. “So,” Fred began, the question that had been burning in him since the fight finally spilling out. “How long have you been doing this? Slinging, I mean.”
Eli shrugged, a casual, easy movement. “Few months. Since my birthday, really. Found my dad’s old gear, Burpy chose me… been learning on the fly ever since.”
Fred stopped walking. He stared. “Months?”
“Yeah. Why?”
A laugh burst out of Fred—sharp, disbelieving. “That battle back there? With the psycho and the ghouls? That was the second time I’ve ever shot a slug out of a blaster.”
Now it was Eli’s turn to stop. He turned, his expression shifting from casual to utterly poleaxed. “You’re kidding.”
“First time was target practice at the back of the shop. Hit a dummy from twenty meters. Big deal.” Fred shook his head, the reality of it all crashing into him. “You fight like you’ve been doing it for years.”
“I’ve had good teachers,” Eli said, recovering somewhat, though his eyes were still wide with appraisal. “And I’ve made a lot of mistakes. You… you planned that flank. You made that shot like it was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing,” Fred said quietly. “It was everything.”
Eli held his gaze, and a slow, mutual understanding passed between them—a recognition that their respective ceilings were unknown, and terrifyingly high. “Looks like we’ve both got stuff to learn,” Eli said finally.
“Guess so.”
They reached the others. Kord was astride a brutish, four-legged Mecha-Beast that looked like it could chew through rock. Pronto was perched precariously on a sleek, single-seater scout model, puffing his chest out as if he were piloting a warship. Trixie was already mounted on her familiar, agile sabre-tooth, its engine emitting a low, patient thrum.
Fred swung a leg over his own transport—a no-frills, reconfigured mining skiff he’d personally tuned until it purred. It was fast in a straight line, stubborn in a turn, and utterly without glamour. Like him.
“Formation!” Eli called out, his voice taking on a new, confident timbre. He kicked his own mecha—a custom job of white steel—to life. “I’ve got point. Kord, Pronto, you’re behind me. Trixie, Fred, watch our tails. Stay sharp. The roads to the hideout are mostly clear, but ‘mostly’ isn’t ‘always’.”
They moved out. The rhythmic chug-chug-thrum of their engines replaced the dripping silence of Quiet Lawn, the sound bouncing off the narrowing tunnel walls. Stalactites reached down like bony fingers. The mineral veins in the rock pulsed with a faint, ethereal light, casting dancing shadows across the group.
Up front, the chatter was constant. Pronto was already narrating. “—and so Pronto said, ‘Foul brigands, you face not just a Shane, but the greatest tracker in the 99 Caverns!’ My booming voice alone caused their Mecha-Beasts to malfunction!”
“I think that was Fred’s Tazerling, little buddy,” Kord rumbled, his laughter echoing.
“A synergistic effect!” Pronto insisted.
Eli chimed in, teasing Pronto about the time he’d mistaken a sleeping Crystalback for a fancy armchair. Their rapport was easy, a well-worn rhythm of jokes and shared history.
In the rear, the silence between Fred and Trixie was a tangible thing. It was filled with the growl of engines, the hiss of steam from a fissure, the memory of a glance after a fight. Fred’s hands were tight on his handlebars. He could feel her presence just to his left, a silhouette of focused readiness in his peripheral vision.
The tunnel curved, the glowing veins thinning, plunging them into deeper shadow broken only by their headlights. The intimate darkness made the silence louder.
He had to say something. The way he’d looked at her—it was a burr under his skin, a distraction he couldn’t afford. He cleared his throat. The noise was absurdly loud.
“Trixie.”
She glanced over, her face half-lit by her bike’s gauges. “Yeah?”
“Back in the square. After.” He stumbled, the words clumsy in his mouth. “The way I was… looking at you. I’m sorry. That was out of line. Won’t happen again.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the crunch of their tires over gravel. He braced for the cool dismissal, the strategic correction.
A soft snort came from her direction. He looked over fully. She was smiling, a small, private thing that carved a dimple in her cheek.
“Fred,” she said, her voice low enough that only the tunnel and he could hear it. “I’ve had Hooligang goons leer at me. I’ve had Blakk’s thugs make suggestions that would curl your hair. What you did?” She shook her head, her red hair shifting. “That was a guy realizing a girl has a shape. It was actually kind of… polite. In a stunned, dumb-boy sort of way.”
Heat flooded Fred’s face, thankfully hidden by the dark. “Polite?”
“Comparative sociology.” She shrugged, but the smile didn’t fade. “Don’t make it weird by apologizing for basic biology. Just don’t make it a habit during a firefight. Focus goes first.”
“Right. Focus.”
“But,” she added, her tone shifting, becoming more earnest. “Thanks. For saying something. Most wouldn’t.”
They rode on, but the silence now was different. It wasn’t empty. It was charged, but with a current he couldn’t quite name. It was comfortable.
Ahead, Eli signaled, slowing his mount. The tunnel was ending, opening into a vast, pitch-black chamber. He killed his engine, and one by one, the others did the same. The sudden quiet was profound, a weight on the eardrums.
Eli dismounted, pulling a small, luminescent Grenuke slug from his pocket. He gave it a gentle toss. It floated ahead, emitting a soft green glow that began to illuminate the space.
It wasn’t a natural cavern. Ancient, rusted mining equipment lay skeletal and silent. Sagging conveyer belts formed bridges across deep chasms. And nestled in the far wall, hidden behind a cascading waterfall of thick, clear mineral runoff, was a geometric shape—a door, seamlessly integrated into the rock.
“Home sweet home,” Eli whispered, a note of pride in his voice.
He led them on foot across a creaking metal gantry. The water from the falls misted the air, cool on Fred’s skin. As they approached, a scanner beam shot from above, washing over Eli, then each of them in turn. A deep, hydraulic clunk resonated through the rock, and the heavy door slid sideways with a sigh of releasing pressure.
Warm light and the smell of reheated slug-noodle soup spilled out.
The interior was a marvel of repurposed chaos. Workbenches groaned under disassembled Mecha-Beast parts and slug containment units. Maps were pinned to every inch of wall space, layered with notes in different handwritings—Eli’s bold print, Trixie’ precise script, Kord’s blocky diagrams. A dented kettle steamed on a hotplate. It was cluttered, lived-in, and utterly safe.
“Rack for your blaster’s there,” Kord said, pointing to a wall with pegs. Next to Eli’s sleek model and Trixie’s modified piece, there was an empty spot. “Soup’s on. Bunks are upstairs. Don’t touch the stuff on the blue bench, it’s unstable.”
Fred unclipped his blaster. The red barrel looked fierce, alien, and perfectly right hanging beside the others. He placed it on the peg. It belonged.
Voltage zipped from his shoulder, joining Burpy and Trixie’s Tormato in a gleeful, spiraling dance around the central heating duct.
Pronto immediately climbed onto a stool and began adjusting a picture of himself on the wall. “The legend requires updated iconography to include our new… associate.”
Fred just stood there, his duffel at his feet, taking it in. This was the base. This was the team.
Eli clapped him on the back, jarring him from his thoughts. “Come on,” he said, grinning. “I’ll show you around.”
“I’ll show you around.”
Eli led him away from the entrance clutter, and the space opened up. Fred’s breath caught. The hideout wasn’t a cave; it was a sanctuary carved by someone who gave a damn. The walls were cool, bluish-grey stone, but they glowed with a soft, ambient light from enormous luminescent mushroom caps fitted into the ceiling like organic chandeliers. Their gentle phosphorescence mixed with the warmer tones of recessed lighting in the smooth, earth-toned floors.
“Kord helped us find the spot,” Eli said, his voice echoing slightly in the open space. “My dad’s old notes mentioned it. Took us a week just to clear the rubble.”
The layout was multi-level and open, inviting movement. A sturdy staircase of reclaimed mining rig plating led up to a railed loft area. The heart of the main floor was a sunken living space, dominated by a massive, worn couch the color of dried mud and a large viewscreen embedded in the stone. It was currently off, reflecting the room’s soft glow.
Fred’s eyes jumped from one detail to another. Scattered clusters of real, leafy indoor plants thrived under the mushroom-light. A sleek, curved command console with multiple holographic projectors hummed quietly to their left, a stark contrast to the raw rock behind it.
“That’s mission central,” Eli noted, following his gaze. “Trixie lives there. Mostly.”
To the right was a workshop area that made Fred’s fingers itch. A heavy-duty desk was anchored to the floor, its surface a controlled chaos of tools and component boxes. A giant pegboard hung above it, silhouettes marking where every wrench, spanner, and voltage-meter belonged. It was a thousand times more organized than Red Hook’s shop, and just as loved.
“That’s Kord’s cathedral,” Eli said, smiling as a low whistle of an impact driver sounded from behind a half-dismantled thruster unit. “Don’t touch anything that’s sparking. Usually.”
They passed a compact but functional kitchen nook, all clean lines and a stove that looked like it could survive a rockslide. The smell of soup was stronger here, mingling with the subtle, clean scent of ozone from the air scrubbers and damp earth from the plants.
“Food’s always on. Rules are simple: eat it, label it, or lose it.” Eli pointed to a magnet on the cooling unit holding a scrawled note that read ‘KORD’S – TOUCH IT AND DIE’ above a meat pie. “He’s not joking.”
Then Eli headed for the stairs. “Sleeping quarters are up here. Gets the best heat rise.”
The loft was cozy, the ceiling lower, the light even softer. It was divided by a free-standing stone partition that created two semi-private sleeping areas. Each side held a sturdy, built-in bunk bed frame, the mattresses looking thick and actual, not just bedrolls. Personal items were tucked on shelves: a stack of tech manuals, a polished piece of crystal, a framed picture of an older man with Eli’s smile.
Eli jerked a thumb at the bunk on the left. “That’s me and Kord. Snoring is a tactical issue. You get used to it.”
He then pointed to the other partitioned space. It was distinctly neater. A small shelf held a few data-slates, a lens cleaning kit, and a single, smooth river stone. “That’s Trixie’s.”
Fred nodded, assuming the empty top bunk across from hers was his. He moved to drop his duffel on it.
“Actually,” Eli said, scratching the back of his neck with a faintly apologetic grin. “Bottom bunk’s yours. You’re sharing with Trixie.”
Fred froze, his arm half-extended. He slowly turned his head. “What?”
“The frames are built as doubles. She’s got the top.” Eli shrugged, as if the logic was undeniable. “I sleep with Kord. And naturally, Trixie didn’t want to sleep with a Molenoid, so she wanted her own bed. Pronto’s got a little hammock-nook downstairs by the heating vent. So that left a spare bunk. Here.”
Fred looked from the impeccably made bottom bunk, to the personal items on Trixie’s shelf just feet away, then back to Eli’s frank face. A cascade of sensations hit him: the faint, clean scent of soap that lingered in the space, the intimate reality of sharing such close quarters, the memory of her saying don't make it weird.
He swallowed. “Right. Logistics.”
“It’s just sleep,” Eli said, though a flicker in his eyes suggested he understood the weight of it. “Walls are thick. Mostly. You good?”
Fred let out a slow breath and dropped his duffel onto the lower bunk with a soft thud. The mattress gave just the right amount. He looked past the partition, out over the rail at the incredible space below—the gentle light, the hum of activity, the sheer, impossible safety of it all.
A laugh, quiet and amazed, escaped him. He ran a hand through his mullet. “Eli, I grew up in a room above a forge that smelled like a burnt motor. I slept next to a barrel of hydraulic fluid.” He shook his head, meeting Eli’s gaze, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “This is the best place I have ever seen.”
Eli’s smile was genuine, touched with a understanding that went beyond the stone and light. “Welcome home, man.”
From below, Kord’s voice boomed. “Soup’s getting cold! If Pronto finishes the last of the crustaceans, I’m not responsible for my actions!”
Fred’s stomach growled, answering the call. He took one last look at his bunk, at Trixie’s shelf, at the whole improbable reality of it. Home. He followed Eli back down the stairs, his footsteps on the metal ringing with a new, belonging sound.
He followed Eli back down the stairs, his footsteps on the metal ringing with a new, belonging sound. The smell of the soup grew richer, a savory broth thick with roasted mushrooms and tender, slow-cooked tubers. Kord was already hefting an enormous pot from the stove, his massive hands protected by worn oven mitts.
“Gather round, family!” he boomed, his voice full of a simple, profound joy. “Feast time.”
Pronto had produced a comically small bowl, holding it out with a flourish. Trixie was retrieving mismatched spoons from a drawer. It was a ritual, Fred realized. This was how they celebrated coming home alive. The simple act of sharing a meal.
His stomach clenched with a sudden, deep hunger that had nothing to do with food. It was a hunger for this: the clatter of spoons, the steam rising from the pot, the easy way Eli hip-checked Kord out of the way to grab the ladle. He moved to help, but Trixie caught his eye and shook her head, a faint smile on her lips. Just watch, her look said. Just be here.
Fred lingered by the bottom of the stairs, a spectator to this intimacy. Voltage zipped back to his shoulder, buzzing with a contented, low hum. He was about to step forward when a sudden impulse seized him. The childish, gravity-defying joy of the moment, of being included, was too much.
Instead of walking down the last few steps, he threw a leg over the staircase railing. It was polished smooth from years of use. With a grunt of effort, he pushed off.
He slid down, the metal cool through his jeans, a grin spreading across his face. It was faster than he expected. He shot off the end of the railing just as Trixie turned from the counter, two bowls in her hands.
He crashed into her.
The bowls went flying, clattering across the stone floor. He grabbed her instinctively, his arms wrapping around her torso to keep them both upright. They stumbled together, a chaotic dance of unbalanced momentum, before coming to a teetering stop against the edge of the couch.
Her body was tense and wiry against his. For one frozen second, they were pressed together from chest to thigh. He felt the surprising strength in her frame, the quick intake of her breath against his neck. His face was buried in her red hair.
He inhaled.
The scent was clean, sharp like ozone after a storm, layered with something subtly sweet—not perfume, but soap and the faint, warm scent of her skin. It cut through the smell of soup and oil and damp cave. It was utterly, specifically her.
He forced himself to pull back, his hands releasing her as if she were scalding. Her eyes, wide and shocked, met his. In that flash, he didn’t see the strategist or the sharp-tongued camera operator. He saw a startled young woman, her guard completely down, her lips parted in surprise. It was a raw, fleeting vulnerability that made his chest ache.
He broke the eye contact, his face burning. “Shit, Trixie, I’m sorry,” he stammered, taking a full step back. The sheepish grin he offered felt stupid on his face.
She blinked, the vulnerability vanishing behind a familiar, playful exasperation. She rolled her eyes, a long-suffering gesture, and bent to pick up the scattered bowls. “Smooth entrance, grease-monkey,” she muttered, but there was no real anger in it. “Just… walk next time.”
“Noted,” Fred said, his voice rough.
Kord’s laughter echoed through the cavern. “He’s fitting right in! Almost took out our comms officer before his first meal!”
“A pre-meal demolition derby,” Pronto declared from his stool. “A bold, if unrefined, cultural contribution.”
Soon, they were all crammed onto the massive sunken couch, steaming bowls in hand. Fred found himself wedged impossibly between Kord’s mountain-like side and Trixie. Every time Kord shifted to gesture with his spoon, Fred was shoved firmly against her.
The contact was constant, unignorable. The solid, warm pressure of Kord’s arm on his left. The soft, yielding curve of Trixie’s hip and thigh against his right. His right elbow, as he tried to balance his bowl, brushed against the side of her breast through the fabric of her shirt.
A jolt, hot and electric, shot straight down his spine. He stiffened, clamping down hard on the immediate, involuntary response that stirred in his groin. He focused on the bowl, on the steam, on anything but the feel of her next to him.
He took a mouthful of soup.
Flavor exploded on his tongue—rich, earthy, deeply savory, with a hint of a spice he couldn’t name. It was incredible. It was the taste of safety, of companionship, of a hard day ending well. A low, appreciative groan escaped him before he could stop it.
“Damn, Kord. This is… holy shit.”
Kord beamed, his blue skin crinkling around his eyes. “Secret’s in the roasted Glimmer-spore powder.”
From his shoulder, Voltage chirped with interest. Before Fred could react, the little Tazerling hopped down, landing with a delicate plop on the rim of his bowl. He dipped his head, took a tiny sip of the broth, and let out a high, happy trill. He looked up at Fred, his yellow eyes bright, and chirped again in clear agreement.
Fred laughed, a real, unguarded sound. “Yeah, I know.”
The rest of the meal was a warm blur of stories and comfortable silence. Pronto recounted their escape from the Hooligang, his role growing more grandiose with each sentence. Eli and Trixie gently corrected him, their teasing fond. Fred listened, soaking it in, the warmth of the food and the couch and the people seeping into bones that had been cold and wary for a long time.
Later, after the bowls were cleaned and the others began to disperse, Fred managed to pry himself from the couch’s comfortable grip. The act felt physical, like extracting himself from a deep, warm mud bath. “Gonna turn in,” he mumbled, his limbs heavy with a pleasant exhaustion.
Upstairs, the loft was quiet. The soft mushroom-glow from below cast long, gentle shadows. He pulled off his boots, his shirt, leaving on his jeans. He slid into the bottom bunk, the mattress firm and welcoming. Voltage curled into a ball on the spare pillow, his electric crackle subdued to a soft, sleepy hum.
Fred lay in the dark, listening to the distant sounds of the hideout: Kord tinkering on something below, the low murmur of Eli’s voice, the clink of dishes. The strange, wonderful normality of it all lulled him toward sleep.
He was drifting when he heard the soft creak of the stairs.
He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep. The footsteps were light, precise. Trixie. He heard her set something down on her shelf—her camera, maybe. A rustle of fabric, the sound of a zipper.
His pulse, which had been slow and steady, gave a hard, single thump.
He opened his eyes to the barest slit. She was turned away from him, silhouetted by the faint ambient light. She pulled her shirt over her head in one smooth motion.
The sight was a physical blow.
The smooth, pale plane of her back was revealed, the line of her spine a faint shadow descending into the waistband of her pants. Her shoulders were lean, strong from handling her mecha and her camera rig. She undid her pants, pushing them down her legs, and stepped out of them.
For a second, she stood there in just her underwear—simple, dark shorts and a matching bra that hugged the gentle swell of her breasts from the side. Then those, too, were gone, tossed onto a chair.
The curve of her ass was perfect in the dim light, a pale, heart-shaped shadow. The dimples at the base of her back, the subtle shift of muscle as she bent to grab a folded sleep shirt. His cock, soft a moment before, hardened in a sudden, painful rush, straining against the fly of his jeans. He held his breath, his blood roaring in his ears.
She pulled the sleep shirt on, a long, soft thing that fell to her mid-thigh. She didn’t put on anything else. With a quiet sigh, she climbed the short ladder to the top bunk.
The frame groaned softly. The mattress above him shifted, accepting her weight. He could hear her settling, the rustle of blankets. Then, silence.
He was about to let out his trapped breath, to try and will his body back to calm, when he heard it.
A faint, almost inaudible catch in her breathing. Then another. The mattress above him gave a slight, rhythmic tremble. A tiny, subtle movement.
His mind, feverish, connected the dots. The sound wasn't sleep. It was the soft, suppressed gasp of someone trying to be quiet. The tremor in the mattress was too specific, too localized.
She was touching herself.
The knowledge was a lightning bolt to his gut. Every part of him went intensely, hyper-aware. He could picture it: her hand under the soft fabric of that shirt, slipping into her panties. Her fingers finding her own wetness. The image was so vivid he gasped silently.
He was achingly hard, a thick, urgent pressure against his zipper. The risk was insane. She was right above him. One sound, one shift of the bunk, and she’d know.
The danger only fed the desperate heat coiling in his stomach. He moved with glacial slowness, his hand trembling. He unbuttoned his jeans, eased the zipper down. The sound was deafening in the quiet. He freed his cock, which sprang hot and heavy into his own hand.
Above, he heard a soft, wet sound. A sharp, bitten-off inhale. The mattress tremor increased its pace.
He matched it.
He began to stroke himself, his grip firm, his thumb sliding over the slick head. He used his own precum to ease the friction, his mind completely swallowed by the sounds from above. Each quiet, hitching breath from Trixie was a guide. He imagined her fingers circling her clit, plunging into her pussy. He imagined her doing it while thinking of something, of someone. The thought that it could be him, after the day they’d had, after the collision on the stairs, was intoxicating.
His own strokes became faster, tighter. He was panting softly through his nose, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He was a live wire, every nerve ending focused on the clandestine, shared rhythm. Her breathing grew more ragged, more urgent. A low, stifled moan filtered down.
It pushed him over the edge.
With a violent, silent convulsion, his orgasm ripped through him. Thick, hot stripes of come shot onto his stomach and chest, pulsing out in time with the frantic, final tremors of the bunk above. He heard her gasp, a short, sharp sound that was instantly muffled, as if she’d shoved her face into her pillow.
Then, a long, shuddering sigh.
Then, stillness.
The only sounds were the distant hum of the hideout and their own slowing, synchronized breaths. Fred lay in the dark, cum cooling on his skin, stunned by the filthy, secret intimacy of it. He carefully, quietly, cleaned himself with the edge of his sheet.
Above, Trixie’s breathing evened out into the deep, slow rhythm of sleep.
Fred lay in the warm dark, the scent of her and sex and his own shame hanging in the air around him. Exhaustion, deeper than any physical fatigue, pulled him under. He slipped into a dreamless sleep just as she did, the distance between their bunks feeling like an entire cavern, and also no distance at all.