Kinks in the Rear View Mirror

Dr Alan Caldwell gripped the overhead handle for dear life. He was the stats and facts guy, not your everyday field agent, so being squeezed into the back of a humvee that was rattling along the highway was not his idea of a good time. He’d spent the best part of a decade with the ART - that is, the Anomaly Retention Taskforce - and in that time had seen everything from carnival masks turning people into animals to VHS tapes transforming viewers into sitcom dads. The scope of what was out there both thrilled and unnerved him, and lent a lot to his overall disposition. He was a meek fellow, around only 5’7” at best and skinny enough for a light breeze to send him off-balance. He’d glasses, of course, and a short mop of auburn curls he’d never really known what to do with. Awkward though he may be, it was Caldwell who was responsible for ART having an itemised list of all known anomalies and recommendations on how best to contain them.

He’d a research pack on his lap compiling all he knew of their destination, but it was Agent Whitaker, the taskforce’s esteemed leader, who debriefed the others. (Which was a relief given Caldwell wasn’t sure he’d be heard above the engine.)

“So,” Whitaker’d begun with his usual haughty airs, “ART-6129. ‘6129 is a predatory location which manifests along exits of the United States Numbered Highway System in the contiguous United States. 6129 has no fixed location and does not appear on any map. 6129’s appearance however IS believed to be fixed in the form of a small midwestern town. Previous interaction with 6129 reports signage along the town lines identifying it as ‘Newport’.’”

  “If it’s not on any map…” That third voice was Agent Theo Lang, the fresh-faced rookie on his first major outing and the team’s designated driver which…explained a lot. “How will I know where to find it?”

Whitaker smiled at Lang’s question and continued to read. “‘It is unclear what conditions must be met for 6129 to manifest before a driver, however---’”

“---The site gives off a SIGNIFICANT amount of spectral electromagnetic interference,” Caldwell interjected with enthusiasm. “Previous research suggests localised ionospheric distortion prevents 6129 from registering on any conventional equipment like GPS. But by honing in on these pockets of interference---”

“---The areas it DOESN’T want us looking at,” Lang followed, earning a nod from the researcher.

“---We’re hoping to locate and, and breach 6129 for further study, yes.”

The humvee continued to rattle its way along with Caldwell ping-ponging between two of Whitaker’s armed goons in the back. He wasn’t entirely sure of their names - an unfortunate condition of them being the ART’s ‘disposables’ - but he must’ve apologised half a dozen times on that final leg of the journey. 

“There it is-!” he’d squeaked out of the blue, jolting upright in his seat waving a handheld spectrum analyser. “A spike in the, in the VHF band!...Oh, but THAT’S weird…”

Whitaker glanced over his shoulder, jaw clenched. “Caldwell…?”

“It’s…It’s not just background noise, not like I expected. It’s patterned, by design, like…well, like a broadcasting signal!” He adjusted the dials with shaking fingers, brow knit this way and that at the readings it gave off. “I know we’re dealing with, well, we never really KNOW what we’re dealing with, but I never thought…” He dialled some more. “NTSC artefacts, THIS amount of audio-visual st---”

“Wait, shh-shh-shh.” Lang now, who’d been tinkering with the vehicle’s radio system. “Do you guys hear that?”

The helmeted goons shrugged but Caldwell’s face said it all.

“Maybe I’m---It COULD just be interference but it kind of sounded like…music?”

The team fell silent awaiting confirmation from Caldwell, only for the radio and their walkies to suddenly BLARE with what could only be described as an opening credits theme. It sounded like five other well-known songs all fused together, lending just enough of a sense of familiarity and nostalgia whilst remaining ever so slightly ‘off’. It’d taken all of Lang’s nerves not to veer off the road.

“Jesus fuck-!” he’d shrieked, managing to keep the humvee on all fours. “What WAS that?!”

“Music,” Caldwell’d drolly confirmed. “You’re wrong, though - it’s NOT interference, at least not the kind you’d expect. It’s coming from INSIDE 6129 itself!”

Knowing then that they must be near, the humvee crested a low hill. Everything’d looked normal for a moment, the same endless farmland they’d seen on the rest of their journey, the grey afternoon sky, a lone grain silo in the distance.

Then the static hit.

It started as a low hum in their teeth before blooming into full-blown television static rattling about in their skulls. Caldwell was sure he heard the others screaming over it - or was that himself? - while he contorted up against the window. The air outside seemed to shimmer like heat haze and the humvee was rattling beyond just Lang’s driving. The opening theme’d at least come to an end and with it their ordeal, the humvee sputtering its last as it rolled down the banked roadside. The quintet stumbled over one another on their way out, coughing and doubled over trying to gather their bearings.

“Alright, men,” Whitaker groaned with a pinch between the eyes, “focus. Goes without saying that we’ve breached the threshold of the anomaly so standard observation protocols apply. That means no interacting with locals, no eating or drinking of any kind, no snagging souvenirs to take home - unless you’re Caldwell - and, ah, you know the rest. If anyone starts acting weird,” he unfastened a small syringe-like firearm from his belt which Lang and the two helmeted goons also possessed, “put them down ASAP, yourself included. There’ll be time for questions later, but for now I want a perimeter established around the town. We need to know how big an anomaly we’re dealing with and if we’ll need reinforcements.”

“A-About that,” Caldwell trailed. He was holding a large black brick in his hand with an antenna at the end. The screen and design were not standard issue. In fact, the device he held looked distinctly…vintage. “Crossing the town line appears to have, have had a detrimental effect on our equipment. It drained the humvee of power,” they all turned to the dead vehicle, “but it’s also transformed our walkies from a modern model to, well, something better suited to the 90s.”

Lang fumbled with his uniform and sure enough produced a similar sized brick, then Whitaker, and the two helmeted goons. Whitaker’d dropped his like a hot potato in fear of catching whatever’d afflicted it.

“Alright then, so comms are off the table. I don’t want anyone operating anything affected by the anomaly, understand?” The three armed men all nodded, though Caldwell was still examining his. It’d the same ‘heat haze’ as when they’d crossed the town line, like a form of static was emanating from the device. “We’ll move to find a central base of operation. From there we can meet up every hour on the hour to report back, if we’re not stuck using sun dials by then.” A sharp whistle. “Come on then. I don’t want to spend any longer here than we need to.”

And so the quintet made their way from the abandoned vehicle along the banked roadside headed into town. Hidden behind some trees, revealed with a twinkling piano cue, was a postcard-esque sign along the town line, gone entirely unnoticed by the crew.

Welcome to Newport

Home of the Newport Wildcats

Population: 3,842

Another heat haze.

Population: 3,847

To be continued...

___

Starring:

Alan Caldwell as ???

David Whitaker as ???

Theo Lang as ???

??? as ???

Sprawled upon the sofa in nothing but boardshorts was a jock. He’d a tight cut of brunette curls, peach fuzz mustache along his upper lip and a douchey goatee upon his chin. His body bordered on parody compared to Brody’s, taking up at least twice as much space in both literal size and smell. A gold chain choked around his neck and he’d committed the cardinal sin of wearing socks with slides. He also wore sunglasses, which Brody couldn’t decide was him committing to the aesthetic or an attempt at masking a hangover. Before he could land either way, the jock rose from his slump with explosive force, beaming like a dopey golden retriever.

“Hey, bro!” he hollered, loud enough for the entire block to hear. “Name’s Tanner. Glad to be roomin’ with ya, bro!”

He moved closer and Brody braced himself for the inevitable. The wind was squeezed right out of him as Tanner wrapped an arm around to bring him in. He held his breath a moment longer out of spite, nose buried in his pit, only to then choke upon his release.

“...Aheck-!...Br—” Phew! “Uh, Brody. I’m—” Wheeze. “Brody.”

“Brody!” he beamed wider still. “That’s gonna be easy to remember, bro. We’re gonna be best buds, I can tell!”

Brody wasn’t so convinced. ‘Bro’ was a nickname he’d shunned his entire life. Coupled with the fact Tanner clearly hadn’t showered all week and that he’d already made a mess of the place - football trophies here, bottles and cans there, a few scattered jerseys and a suspiciously football-sized dent in the wall - he didn’t expect to last the night. Still, he didn’t have the heart to say that to Tanner’s face. The dope seemed happy enough just having company, compatible or otherwise.

“Sooo, you need help with your stuff, bro? I can go lift it for you. I’m good at that.” He’d smirked and gave an exaggerated curl of his bicep, pout and all. “I’ve got stuff in my car I still gotta haul anyways, but you can help with that, right bro?”

There it was again. Brody bit his tongue and headed for the door. The pair made swift work of the luggage, hoisting everything from boxes of clothes to a flatscreen TV, and Tanner must’ve snuck at least half a dozen ‘bro’s while doing it. Brody wasn’t sure if he was trying to piss him off or make the nickname stick. By the time they finished he was a tense and sweaty mess, dabbing away at his forehead with the collar of his tee. 

“Think fast-!” 

Brody all but doubled over as Tanner lobbed a can straight at him, striking his chest. He managed to break its fall by cupping his hands and after some fumbling was able to hold it.

“Figured you’d need a drink, bro. You’re stronger than you look. What you here for anyways?” Tanner was draped again upon the sofa, his arms exaggeratedly spread along the back and his legs leaving nothing to the imagination. Annoyed as Brody was, he couldn’t deny the jock seemed genuinely invested in getting to know him, so he softened his glare and took a sip of beer.

“Well, that’s a bit of a long story actually,” he confessed, lingering by the front door.

Tanner’s smile held.

“I applied to a lot of the big art schools - y’know, the bougie pretentious ones - but it’s…hoo, it’s a cutthroat world, lemme tell you. All my friends got in, pursuing fine arts and all that,” he waved a hand and took another sip, “but I’m more of an illustration kind of guy. Anime, cartooning, that sort of thing.”

Tanner nodded, though had a look that said he knew there’d be more.

“So yeah, it wasn’t looking good. I didn’t have a lot of options left. But then I got this email,” sip, “for here. I know the kind of rep’ it has but they DID offer me an unconditional place. Think they liked that I did track, I guess. Must’ve looked good.”

Tanner clapped his hands together. Knew it! “And now you’re here, bro.”

Brody nodded. “And now I’m here.”

Tanner tossed him another beer. Had he finished it already? Damn. “Your story doesn’t make much sense though, bro.”

“Oh, yeah?”

The jock shook his head. “This place doesn’t HAVE any arts department, bro.”

“...”

“You must’ve misread, bro. Dalton’s, like, THE place to be for athletes. It’s the only thing it’s good for, bro.”

“...No, but I’d have-”

“Cards on the table, bro, I called it. Clocked it a mile off.”

Brody’s world began to spin, the edge of his vision blurring. His grip tightened on the can - his second? Third? He’d lost count amidst the confusion. “Stop—S-Stop calling me that.”

“Calling you what, bro?” He looked genuinely confused, bordering on offended. Or was he smug? Brody’s head—

“Bro!”

“Yeah?”

Goddammit! Brody felt himself swaying off-balance. His body felt wrong in so many ways. It was obvious he worked out like Tanner’d said but it’d become even more obvious given he was standing with nothing on. OK, well, not NOTHING - he still had a pair of khaki shorts on that gave away the fact he was freeballing, and when he side-stepped to balance himself out he heard the distinct SLAP, SLAP of a slider thwacking his sock-clad sole. 

“Bro?” Tanner again, grounding him back to reality.

“Yeah?” God, why did he sound hungover? It felt like his mouth was stuffed with cotton. He wriggled his jaw side to side, running a callused mitt along the douchey…chinstrap…beard?

“You good? Spaced out there for a sec, bro.”

Brody shook his head. Then nodded. Then gawked over at himself - the tight biceps and quads, the wiry hair swirling around his nipples, that he’d a thick semi snaked down his right leg whose head would occasionally bob out beneath the cuff. His knuckles were scarred and bruised and his left eye felt a bit janky, but he looked fucking sick! As in, something was seriously, seriously wrong with him. Right?

“So, yeah, bro, like I said - what you here for anyways?”

Brody furrowed his brow, an impressive feat given how thick it already was. Hadn’t he already told him? Wasn’t it obvious? The fuck did he think those trophies were for - debate club?

“Wrestling, bro.” The words blurted out before Brody could even think to silence them. He spoke with a gruff timbre that bordered on vocal fry, like every syllable was held a moment longer than he ought to. “Scholarship, y’know? All my buds bailed to some artsy fartsy dump but,” he shrugged his beefy shoulders, “wrestling’s its own kinda art, bro.”

“Fuck yeah it is!” Tanner whooped, smacking the back of the sofa for his roomie to come join him. He slammed another beef against his chest and flicked on the TV, some college football game or another Brody’d previously had no interest in; this time he found himself hooked, leaning forward and reacting whenever a play was made, managing to somehow match then outdo Tanner’s enthusiasm. “Man, I knew we’d hit it off when I saw you, bro. Had me worried for a sec’ coz you had that whole quiet thing going on but,” he snerked, “Brody? I mean, come ON, bro!”

 ___

Conner was nervous about living in a dorm. He knew the reputation they had, especially those at Dalton, and that he’d surely be forced to live with at least one roommate throughout the semester. What if they never got on? Conner was an English lit student with a particular interest in poetry. He’d a mousy visage and eyes that never quite held anyone’s gaze, particularly those he’d had to squeeze by on his way into the building. He’d have gone anywhere else if they’d been less demanding, but Dalton’d thrown him a bone and for all its faults he couldn’t object to the cost of living there. 

It occurred to him as he climbed the stairs that he wasn’t sure if Dalton even had much in the way of a literary department. He stepped over some bottles, a scattering of anime drawings and discarded condom packets - was…was that a used one?! - before settling upon his door. 

#69. 

He rolled his eyes. Someone out there must’ve laughed themself stupid at that. In fact, muffled behind the door, someone WAS laughing themself stupid, TWO someones from the sound of things. He tensed with the key half-turned, hearing them roughhousing and goading one another on. It wasn’t too late, right? If his roommates turned out to be obnoxious douchebags he could always swap with someone else, or spend his days locked away in the library, or go scurrying back home with his tail between his legs. No…No…Conner steeled himself and took a breath, opened the door and stepped inside…

Standing over him with a stance that blocked out the sun was the Hornets’ very own linebacker - Donovan Caldwell. In layman's terms, Donovan - ‘Donny’ as would often be thrown in the halls - was a dick. A colossal unapologetic dick. The same went for all those neanderthals on the team. They were Dalton’s golden boys, bordering on local celebrities. Noah was convinced they all took turns hot potato’ing their one shared brain-cell, though he supposed he wasn’t exactly in any position to judge given his recent concussion. Hell, glancing up into the shade, HE was the one who ended up feeling like a dick cos Donovan was standing over him with a hand outstretched. It was a callused mitt with wiry hairs dusting the knuckles and palms so sweaty he had reservations. In the end though, if only to put the whole situation behind him, Noah accepted and allowed himself to be hoisted back onto his feet. He overshot and stumbled forward, much to the linebacker’s amusement.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” mumbled the jock with a sheepish rub of his neck. “Never saw you there. You alright?”

“...More or less,” Noah’d replied, glad to note all the onlookers had continued on their way. He dusted himself down - more accurately, wiped away the jocksweat - with his left hand gripping what he presumed to be one of his salvaged books.

“Soooo, you gonna throw it back or what?”

His brow rose. When he glanced down to what Donovan’d requested, he almost fell back on his ass. There, in a hand that looked to have been stung by a hive of bees, was the pigskin that’d started it all. But hadn’t he-? Noah turned the hand over, trying to reconcile with what he saw. It moved to his every command, it was attached to the end of his arm, but it was NOT his. Every digit looked like a swollen sausage, the nail beds cracked, the palm and tips callused. There was an odd weatherbeaten glow about it and a dusting of dirty blonde fuzz along the top, not to mention the fact he was able to grip the football with ease. 

“...Shit, maybe I hit him a lil TOO hard,” he heard Donovan mumble over his shoulder.

It made no sense. NONE of it made sense. People didn’t just—Noah KNEW how his hands looked and those bloated mitts were NOT…anything worth freaking out over. No shit they looked so busted, that was years of passes and lifting iron right there. He shook his head to banish the invasive thoughts and held out the ball to his linebacker.

Donovan blinked. “You sure you’re alright?”

Noah didn’t know what he meant. He didn’t have time to make sense of it cos the fabric of his sleeves had begun to tear. Everything from his shoulder to his wrist unravelled in real-time, putting an end to the plaid red shirt and Guns n Roses tee that made up his aesthetic. That’d almost hurt as much as the cramping that followed. He could feel every fibre tense like a decade of practice and working out hit him like a truck. Veins became more prominent along his forearms and biceps, competing for space with the mass that’d accumulated there. The same blonde hair on his hands dusted the surface and Noah fought to match his self-image with the limbs he saw before him. Then came the shoulders, rounded and capped in a way he hadn’t thought possible. They forced his shirt/tee combo to awkwardly bunch around his collarbone, but even that’d thickened from the beef piling onto his traps.

“...No, yeah, I…Sorry, man,” Noah’d apologised in a daze, giving a sharp dart throw of a toss straight at Donovan. There was serious power behind it for a move so casual. He wasn’t sure if to be impressed or to freak the fuck out. That same contradiction was true of many of Noah’s innermost thoughts - there were ideas and factoids and desires totally at odds with how he saw himself. It was becoming increasingly difficult to reconcile with who or what he really was.

“No sweat, man,” the jock replied, palming the ball from hand to hand. “The hell were you doing hanging alone anyways? Had us worried for a sec.”

Us? Noah winced like a guy who’d just taken 230lbs straight to the skull. And what a skull it was. His jawline had widened significantly with a dimple dividing his chin. His nose had thickened and was offset along the bridge, owing to one too many tackles on the green. Eyes that’d once been wet and mousy were now a dull brown with an almost coy glint when the sun hit just right. His cheekbones were higher and more pronounced but he’d a scruffy patch of stubble across everything from the nose down which offset him looking too pretty. His brow’d become thicker, his skin a sun-beaten flush, and the very edge of his lip always seemed curled either in arrogance or amusement. Hair that’d once been an auburn mop was now a dirty blonde fauxhawk, slightly matted at the front with sweat. He’d have hated seeing himself, would’ve written him off like he had the team, but it was hard to connect in a positive way with that image of the old Noah. Hadn’t he been…the one Donnie’d trampled on?

“...Enjoying the sun. Same as you guys.” Even the voice wasn’t anything Noah’d associate with himself. It was on the lower end of tenor with a Cali-bro lilt to it, and much louder than Noah’d ever want to be. Figures though, years of barking across the gridiron would do that.

In a last ditch effort to remove himself from the situation, a remnant of the old Noah fighting back, he stepped around the tree intending to make his escape across the green. He didn’t get very far. The black skinny jeans he’d worn split below the knee, exposing the tight calves of a quarterback. There was an uncomfortable amount of chafing from his thighs, ass and dick all being crammed into the makeshift shorts. And white hot flash of needles etching across his skin. He watched in real-time as ink bled into the back of his right calf, shoddy linework in standard varsity font - a one, then a seven. 17. His player number, already slightly faded. Noah would’ve - should’ve - freaked at the sight but he couldn’t help shake the feeling of camaraderie knowing he was marked as belonging to the team. The hornet etched onto his left shoulder didn’t help.

Donovan SLAPPED him on that shoulder for a laugh, snapping him out of his daze. And Noah in turn, entirely against his previous nature, shoved him right back with enough force for the linebacker to stumble. He immediately regretted it. He was going to get punched. He’d surely summon the others to beat him senseless. God, he wished he…wished he’d shoved him harder, and went in against his every instinct for a bit of brotherly roughhousing. Amongst all the laughing and shoving and mock-chokeholding, it occurred to Noah that he’d been shit-scared of Donovan only moments ago. He was an absolute unit who’d blocked out the sun. And yet, he wasn’t as tall or as big or as scary as he remembered, the two jocks a pile of limbs beneath the tree just like before.

“Scrappy fucker,” Donnie’d teased, making a mess of Noah’s hair.

“Fat bastard,” Noah’d clapped back, shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Somewhere amidst the carnage his sneakers had split, the sole entirely separating from his feet having outgrown them. His socks too had dissolved along the way, leaving Noah barefoot on the grass. He didn’t remember bringing shoes though. Why would he when he’d come to throw ball with his boys? 

Just as the final haze of his concussion started to clear, a wad of papers drifted by upon the wind. They were some dork’s notes about gods and shit. He recognised the general imagery of Zeus and Ares and the like from decor at the gym but the notes themselves may as well have been in Simlish to his addled brain. He scrunched the paper up into a ball in his hand and whistled sharply, directing Donnie and the others to file out across the green.

“Go wide!” Noah barked, and tossed away the last remnants of his old life.