Maverick (A G.I. Joe Fanfiction)

Chapter 1: Honorable Questionnaire

This was seriously the first chapter I wrote since I was having a hard time finding a way to start the book so I was like, might as well keep it simple and get while the getting is good. -Carrath

"Ah, come on!” I exclaimed into my headset, button-smashing my cordless Xbox controller. “Bring it, grandmas!”

“Hey, Maverick,” Mark called over the music from what sounded like the room next door.

“Yeah?” I asked, pulling off one of my ear pads.

“You’re yelling at the screen again,” he leaned down and said in my ear, making me jump out of my skin.

“Jesus Christ, dude. You scared the fudge out of me.”

“Sorry, but I told you to get ready, like, an hour ago.”

“I am ready, see,” I replied, standing in one graceful movement.

Mark looked over my combat-boots, denim skinny jeans, white tank top, black vest, and black leather backpack. I am not surprised his gaze lingered on my face then moved to my hands. My hair, pulled up into a high ponytail to keep the majority of the long, black-red hair out of my stormy blue-gray eyes. My hands wrapped in clean gauze and taped to keep food and liquids from getting into my wounds. I tilted my head to the right and examined my cousin. DC Comics t-shirt, jeans, black Converses, and his short dirty blonde hair it’s normal playfully messy self.

“Oh, well that’s good…great,” he rambled nervously. “Let go, we don’t want to miss the last karaoke night.”

It’s about a fifteen-minute walk from our building to Garrett’s, the bar slash club that held karaoke compactions Friday through Sunday and where anyone could find me, the owner, open to close. Of course, you had to be twenty-one to enter, so twenty-year-old Lisa stayed home wail “the help”, as she calls us, wipe the floor clean with anyone ballsy enough to step on stage or up to the dartboard.

“So,” Mark blurted, grading my attention. “What’s your game tonight? Throws or souls?”

We turn our heads at the same time and say, “Throws."

We’re both laughing as we barreled through the front door; as if this was the second bar we’d been to tonight. I headed straight to the counter and ordered a beer for Mark and a tall glass of ginger ale for myself. Mark slumped in a chair at our usual spot, the last two seats at the table that ran half the length of the bar which ended at the dartboard and was the furthest away from the dance floor. I set the drinks on the table and slipped my bag from my shoulders before turning towards the board. Mark watched, sipping on his beverages, as workers set up the little stage while I got in a few practice shots.

I was standing in front of the target board, ripping out each of the darts I’d thrown, when he came in. Short-cropped black hair, black eyes, Asian, and tan, I’d recognize him anywhere. He was dressed in a white crew collar t-shirt that showed off the red stripes tattooed on his left bicep and white cargo pants held up by a white leather belt with a silver buckle, the pant's legs tucked inside his white leather combat boots. Exactly like yesterday and Friday, he sat alone in a booth, staring at the bartenders, Max and Wiley, intensely.

I strolled back over to Mark and set the darts on the table. I drummed my fingers against the table as I took a mouthful of ginger ale and held it in there a moment before swallowing. Why just sit there? I wondered as my leg started to bounce, making the rest of the table vibrate. I looked back up at him, confusion was written plainly of my face.

“You okay, Maverick?” Mark questioned, waving his hand in front of my face.

“I‘m fine, Mark,” I answered, putting down my glass and grabbing eight darts, four red and four white. “I’m going to see if that guy wants to play?”