star chasers

viii.

Hey!

First of all, thank you so much for taking the time to read this story. I've been in the world of the star chasers for a long time, and sharing this was a big step for me. I do hope you enjoy, and critique is very much appreciated :)

This chapter is fairly long, so I won't be updating for a bit. Let me know what you think, and I hope all is well wherever you are!

- River

.  .  .

One hippie, two assholes. Lefty hoped he would balance it out.

A black van shone in the moonlight of the ancient parking lot, paint chipping off the finish, with a red winged insignia on its side. The Remus crest. Just gazing at it for too long gave Lefty a chill down his spine. It was the van of a guard squad, the kind with two seats in the front and an empty, large space in the back, meant for holding cargo and larger amounts of soldiers. Lots of the vans would park by the camps before a large fight. The night before a tournament, Lefty fell asleep to laughing and camaraderie among his oppressors, sitting in their vans with the doors open, surrounded by a crackling fire.

"Hop in," Apollo spoke, walking towards the passenger seat.

Lefty stared at the void in the back of the van, so familiar that his stomach turned from the smell of vomit and tears. Sweat dripped down his face, the staring contest continuing, the clouds of dust and yell of guards like a distant song in his ear. He thought he'd gotten better., that things like this wouldn't bother him. But he could feel himself fading away, taken over by a memory.

Apollo laughed. "You stupid or something? Get in the van."

Why didn't this happen earlier, when he watched the prisoners emerge from that truck at the refuge? Why did it happen in front of Apollo? And why couldn't he just move into the van like a normal person?

A hard push hit his back as his chest hit the inside of the van. He flipped around to Apollo, face twisted in a sneer. "I don't know how many times you got hit in the head, but if you get in the way, you're out. Get your shit together."

Chu and Scrap walked to the van, Chu placing his hands on Apollo's shoulder. "Go to the front. I'll take care of it later."

Apollo stared at Lefty for a moment, studying his expression. Lefty reminded himself where he was, who he was. Lefty, the former fighter, the star chaser, in a soft van with a hippie, a loudmouth, and a red-haired child. He wasn't a prisoner anymore. He wasn't fighting for anyone but himself.

"You really have me back here with him?" Scrap grumbled, climbing into the van.

"Shut up and sit," Apollo started the engine.

"He's a chaser. Respect him, and he'll respect you," Chu stared, sticking himself out the window to fix the mirrors.

The ride was silent, for the most part, the only sound the hum of the engine and stray whistles of Scrap, who haphazardly played with the blanket on the floor. There were no windows in the back of the van, leaving more room for boredom. More room for memories. The memories were flashes, now, bits and pieces, mostly fogged over by trauma and time. What he did remember, though, wasn't too pleasant.

It was too dark to see anyone, only recognizing the voices of people you may know, people you may not know, people you thought you knew that sounded different. Broken. It was odd, being there, listening as people slowly lost who they were. Some grew agitant, near aggressive. Some grew quiet. Others grew hopeless. The smell got worse as time went on, as people grew queasy from it, eventually vomiting. It burned into your nostrils, that smell, the kind your body tried to ignore, but couldn't seem to make it work. The heat inside made breathing in and out nearly the same. Some became faint. Some didn't wake up. Whenever it got to be too much, he'd just focus on his wrists, pained in their zipties. It was easy to lose yourself.