Sidewinder - Chapter Six

He woke with another headache, pounding and twisting behind his eye, twisting his stomach up in knots. He tried to get out of bed and immediately fell to his knees, swallowing hard against the urge to throw up. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself back up and staggered into the bathroom to down his pills, chasing them with a handful of water from the sink. For long moments he just braced himself with a hand on either side of the counter, his head hanging and his dark hair in his eyes, until the drugs began to kick in and took the edge off. He glanced at his face in the mirror and grimaced at his pale, drawn look, the deep shadows under his eyes, and the stubble darkening his jaw.

He splashed water on his face and gingerly turned on the water into the bath, afraid the pressure of having a shower might cause his head to explode. He washed without making sudden movements then hauled himself out of the tub and dried off, beginning to relax as the headache eased to a dull throb in the back of his skull. A quick glance at the clock showed him that he didn’t have a lot of time left to make it to the arena before his last race of the season. Muttering curses under his breath, he threw on some clothes, dumped a handful of food in the cat’s bowl, grabbed his bag, and jogged outside to hail a cab.

The noise of the huge crowds outside the arena made him wince and he shoved through them with a growl to escape into the quieter back hallways. He was late enough that the dressing room was empty but he still took his time putting on his skates and pads, taking deep breaths to try and keep his heartbeat from pounding in his head. The announcer was making last call by the time he made it out to the starting line, and one of the refs frowned in disapproval, tapping her watch. He forced a smile and gave her the finger in return, then settled into his spot on the track.

The track wavered in front of him and he blinked rapidly, forcing himself to ignore the noise all around him and the sweat trickling down his back. The mingled scents of dust, sweat, and fried foods made his stomach turn over and he coughed to cover up a gag. The racer beside him glanced over then looked back at the track when he glared, muttering something about arrogant assholes. Six resisted the urge to start a fight right at the starting line and instead waited for the sound of the starting gun.

He started off strong at the sound of the gun, taking the opportunity to throw his elbow into the racer beside him, knocking the man off his skates and leaving him in the dust. The crowd roared in approval and he grinned a little, until he felt the first tremor go through his leg. He made himself ignore it, lengthening his stride to keep ahead of the pack, but the tremor grew to a tremble and he stumbled, nearly pitching face-first onto the track. A murmur of shock ran through the crowd and he saw Evita flash by on his right as he fought to keep his balance. He snarled a curse and took off after her, using the incredible speed he was so famous for.

He almost caught her just before the finish line; would have passed her with bare seconds to spare, but for another sudden tremor through his leg. The muscles went abruptly loose and he fell to one knee just over the line, tearing up that knee and both of his palms. All around him the crowd was going wild, their shrieks and excited babble only ramping up the returning pain in his head. Aware that photographers were taking pictures, he shoved himself back to his feet and headed for the exit, straight-arming a reporter out of his way. He ducked into the cool, quieter air of the dressing room and dropped down onto the bench, holding his hands out in front of him. Blood ran down his knee and a few drops fell from an especially deep gouge in the heel of his palm. He ignored it and watched his hands intently, until he saw the faint tremble go through his fingers.

“Six?” The voice made him start, and then flinch at a jolt of pain through his head.

“Fuck off, Zeph.” He blotted his hands on his shorts. “Go out and celebrate, someone beat me.”

“Uh, bitter, party of Six.” He just grinned at the look Six gave him. “Celebrating comes later. You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, when I see someone dripping blood everywhere, my first thought isn’t, ‘oh hey, they must be just fine’.” Zephyr headed across the room and grabbed the first-aid kit from the medicine closet. “So we can do this one of two ways. You can let me patch you up, or I can alert the medics. I hear they have a new backboard they’re dying to try out. I bet the media would have a fuckin’ field day with it.”

“What is it with your family and the aggressive need to poke your nose where it doesn’t belong?” Six asked.

“We like taking in strays.” Zephyr held up the first-aid kit and shook it, making it rattle. “So which is it? Me or the backboard?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” Six sat back to let Zephyr see to the scrapes on his knee, hissing through his teeth at the sting of disinfectant. He could still dimly hear the crowd outside, a dull roar of humanity. Shaking his head, he glanced at Zephyr, who had moved on to disinfecting his hand and was looking up at him expectantly. “What? Want a treat?”

“You’re shaking.” Zephyr studied his face, frowning slightly. “Are you sick?” He tightened his grip on Six’s wrist as Six tried to pull away. “There’s something wrong. The headaches getting worse?”

Six just looked at him, aware that a muscle was jumping in his jaw but unable to stop it. After a moment Zephyr sighed and looked away, rummaging through the first-aid kit until he found a large band-aid to slap over the gouge in Six’s palm. They both heard the excited chatter of the other racers coming down towards the dressing rooms and Six pulled his hand from Zephyr’s grip, waving him away. He leaned over to take off his skates as Zephyr got up to put the first-aid kit away, and was halfway to the exit with his packed bag slung over one shoulder before anyone came in. Zephyr said his name but he ignored it, shoving his way out into the street.

He walked home, trying to clear his head, and opened the door just in time to hear the phone ring. Dropping his bag on the floor, he went to answer it, expecting it to be his manager demanding to know what had happened. Instead an unfamiliar female voice told him she was calling regarding Navid Khataee, and asked if he had a few moments to spare.

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing against a sudden dryness in his throat. “One sec.” He reached out to hook one of the kitchen chairs with his foot and pulled it up to the counter so he could sit down. “Okay, go ahead.”

The conversation lasted only five minutes and he spent most of it leaning on his elbow with his forehead resting on his palm and his eyes closed, muttering, ‘uh-huh’ into the phone. After hanging up, he stayed there for another few minutes, until the cat jumped up into his lap and demanded attention. He stroked it with one hand then got up and dumped more food into its bowl before going to wash and change out of his bloody, dusty clothing. In the shower he paid special attention to his hands, watching the way they moved and flexed, and shook slightly when he reached out for something. He curled his hands into fists and turned his face into the spray, forcing his mind to go blank.

He called his manager after his shower and just said, “I’m not coming tonight.” before hanging up. The phone rang again immediately but he ignored it to go get dressed, choosing his clothes with some care. By the time he left again the pinpoints of light coming through the ceiling were golden-red with the dying of the sun, speckling the sidewalk. He called a cab and gave directions to the hospice on the edge of the city, watching out the window without really seeing. When they arrived he gave the driver a handful of bills without bothering to count them and went into the building, squaring his shoulders as he approached the front desk and gave his full name.

The nurse on duty signed him in and told him he had an hour before visiting hours were over. He nodded, barely listening to her, and took the stairs up to the third floor, lifting one hand to the nurse behind the desk—Joy, he thought distantly, her name is Joy— before going into the first room on the right. The overhead lights had been turned down low, though someone had pulled the curtains back to allow outside light in. It only made the man in the bed look worse, tingeing his skin yellow and revealing how painfully thin he was, little more than skin and bone. His green eyes were the brightest thing about him, but the way they glittered spoke of fever or madness.

“Hey Nav.” Six pulled a chair up to the bed and carefully took the man’s hand, holding it still as the wasted muscles spasmed. “You look like shit.”

“Speak for yourself.” Navid’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t wipe out on the track.”

“Something wrong with my skate,” Six said dismissively. “I got a call from someone named Melanie earlier. New assistant?”

“Probably, they come and go so fast I don’t pay attention to them anymore.” He took a deep breath. “Don’t lie to me, Six.”

“I did get a call.”

“Don’t bullshit me, asshole. There was nothing wrong with your skate.”

“Shut up, Nav. What are they feeding you here anyway?”

Navid sighed and closed his eyes. “They’re treating me all right.”

“I’m paying them enough fucking money, they better be. Listen, I didn’t actually come here to shoot the shit with you. It’ll be announced soon, but I signed up for this exclusive race. It’s topside.”

Navid’s eyes opened wide again. “Tell me you’re shitting me.”

“I’m not. It’s a huge prize for winning. Anything I want that’s not illegal. And it’s the Racing Commission, they’ve got a shaky enough definition of legal as it is. When I win, I can—”

“No.” The word was like a slap in the face and Six felt his temper fraying.

“I’ve already signed up,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even. “I’m doing it whether you like it or not.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed and for what? Me? I’m dead already, I just don’t know it yet. Even if you’re doing it for yourself, it’s fucking pointless if you get torn apart by Hunters.”

“I’m not debating this with you, I’m telling you.” Six shoved himself to his feet. “I’ll come see you again before I leave. Time’s up anyway.”

“Six.” Navid caught at his hand again, just that much effort obviously exhausting him. “Please don’t.”

“See you later, Nav.” He gently squeezed Navid’s thin fingers and left the room, pausing halfway down the stairs with one hand braced against the wall to take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

He signed out again at the front desk and said good night to the nurse, then caught another cab home. His phone was ringing again when he went in, and he quickly picked it up, hung up on whoever was on the other end, and left it off the hook. Grabbing a six-pack of beer from the fridge, he went into the living room and turned on the TV, flipping through until he stumbled on a mindless sitcom to watch while he drank himself into a stupor.