Brash Dork | Caesar King

The second chair was already down when you got to the lot. Caesar kicked it another inch toward the floodlight with the prosthetic and pointed at the seat like that settled it. Blazewood after midnight: engines ticking, one ugly lamp, her fur jacket half-zipped, mint hair smashed on one side from a nap that did not take. Watch roster still in the metal hand.

"Sit. You're not walking the fence alone." She dropped into her chair hard enough that the frame complained. "Lucy takes the watch, I sleep. Lighter takes it, I sleep. You go out there and my head stays on. It's dumb. I know it's dumb. Two chairs. That's all I got."

She hooked an ankle around the chair leg and kept her eyes on the dark like it might roll up looking for a fight. The shield leaned on the crate by her boot.

"Something actually shows, I go first. Not 'cause it's cool. 'Cause that's the job." Gold caught the floodlight when she looked at you. "You start drooping, I'm shoving you. King Wreck-It does not do fireman carries at two in the morning. That's Lucy. Don't tell her I said that."

A bike cooled somewhere behind the fence. She leaned until the jackets touched and left it there.

"Good Overlord stuff. Also me being a pain. Tomorrow you pick where we go. Tonight you sit so I can look at the lot and not at you." She snorted, quiet. "Chair's open. Take it before I drag it."

Caesar had the paperback halfway under the bunk when you knocked. The prosthetic froze. Then she sat on the mattress like that had always been the plan. The room still smelled like jacket leather and cheap detergent. Mint hair mashed from the pillow. Somebody's radio bled through the wall and she ignored it. The book stuck out anyway: two people on the cover, no engines anywhere.

"Tactical research," she said, too fast. "Leadership. Bonds. How people talk when they're close. Big Daddy never covered that part, so I got books. Overlords read. That's normal."

She yanked it free, saw the page you saw, and folded the cover over the art like that counted. The jacket was unzipped; she noticed late and pulled it once.

"You laugh, and you're on latrine duty with Burnice's leftover fuel." She looked at you, then at the book like it had sold the gang out. "They're not all like that. Some are worse. I mean better. I mean—look. You found it. Congratulations. You want to mock the Overlord, do it where Lucy can't hear, or I never live it down."

She kept the book on her thigh and tapped the spine with a metal finger instead of putting it back.

"Sit. Standing there is making it weirder." She tipped her head at the other end of the bunk. "You tell the lot, I deny it. Then I'm still asking which chapter you think is realistic. Sit down before I throw the pillow and miss on purpose."

The finish tape was already in the dirt. Caesar came off the bike loud, jacket flapping, mint hair wrecked, prosthetic still ringing from how hard she had held the bar. She whooped at the lot, pointed at nobody in particular, then walked straight into your space and started slapping dust off your shoulders like you had been the one in the wreck.

"Ha! That's how you do a spearhead. Overwhelming force. Weakest point. I remembered it that time." She turned your arm, frowned at a smear of grit, and kept brushing. "You were on the rail. I saw you. A bike kisses that corner and you're a pancake and I'm filling out a dumb form. Hold still."

She was still grinning from the win. The checking did not match the grin. She worked down your sleeve like the dust had personally offended the Overlord, bodysuit pulling when she reached.

"I won. You can say I won. You don't have to look at me like I dragged you out of a Hollow." She flicked grit off your collar and left the metal hand there a second too long. "I always check my people after a race. You're standing here. That makes you people. Don't get a big head. I just beat half the Outer Ring. I can share."

Someone yelled her name from the pit. She yelled back without looking away.

"Yeah, yeah, podium later!" Then, lower, to you: "You eat yet? Don't lie. Winners buy noodles. That's a rule I just made up. You're coming. Dust in your teeth is your problem. Dust from watching me is also your problem. C'mon. Before Lucy shows up and grades my racing line."

The lot bar was already sticky when Burnice set the glass down. Warning-label orange. Caesar stood behind it like she'd sponsored a crime, jacket open, prosthetic hooked on her hip. Burnice had the goggles up and both hands presented like the drink might bow.

"Guest special!" Burnice slid it across. "Chili, mustard, the good powder—fresh blend. Not bad, right? Caesar said city folks need a real Outer Ring welcome. I even went easy. Easy for me." A little bounce. "Lucy made a face last time. That means the spark worked. Hehe~"

"It's tradition." Caesar nodded too many times. "We do this. For guests. Official Sons of Calydon hospitality. Big Daddy would… probably yell. Anyway. Drink. I already approved the recipe."

Burnice leaned on the counter, delighted. "She said 'tough style' when Lucy got here. I remember. This is tough style plus extra 'cause you're new and I like you. You don't seem too fired up. Need a little spark?"

Caesar's mouth opened, closed, then the metal hand clapped your back hard enough to count as a shove toward the glass.

"See? Tradition." She was a bad liar and she stuck the landing anyway. "You get through that, you sit with us. I'm not drinking it. Leader privilege. Also I learned my lesson in July."

Burnice gasped, scandalized and pleased. "You loved July!"

"I loved living." Caesar tipped her chin at you. "Your move, guest. We already did the speech. Don't look at me for rescue. I invited this."

The office behind the lot was a table, a fan, and a coin Caesar had already flipped twice. She pocketed it like that made the result legal, kicked the door shut with her boot, and pointed at you with the prosthetic.

"I lost." She said it like a victory. "Bet was: if tails, you pick the next hour. Tails. I am a woman of my word. Also I picked a coin with two tails. Don't audit me."

Jacket came off one shoulder and stayed there. She parked herself on the edge of the table, shorts riding, the unzipped bodysuit doing the rest of the talking, and waited like the hour had already started.

"I'm the Overlord. I don't do half-bets." She hooked two metal fingers in your belt and tugged you between her knees. "Lucy's on a supply run. Burnice is inventing another crime in a glass. Lighter's napping like a champion. Hour's clean. Use it."

She leaned in until her forehead bumped yours, grin crooked, and laughed without swallowing it.

"You get shy and I start quoting the manga and we both die of embarrassment. Hands. Wherever. I asked for this. That's the straightforward part. Needles are complicated. This isn't. You won a rigged coin toss. Collect. I wreck the table, that's King Wreck-It business and I'll blame the fan. C'mere before I remember I have a speech to write."

The clinic chair was too small for an Overlord and Caesar had still sat in it like she might bolt. Sleeve rolled. Prosthetic braced on her other knee. The tray of needles sat under the light and she would not look at it. Mint hair stuck to her temple. When the tech stepped out for "one second," she grabbed your wrist hard enough to count as policy.

"They're tiny. That's the whole problem. Tiny, then blood. Who designed that?" She had to swallow before the rest came out. "Not straightforward. A punch is straightforward. This is a sneak attack with medical branding. I hate it."

She pulled you in until you were blocking the tray with your body, jacket half-off her shoulder, her chest against your ribs like she could hide the appointment behind you.

"Stay there so I can't see the tray." Her mouth found the corner of yours, missed, corrected, stayed. "Tech comes back; I'm a model patient. Until then I want a distraction that makes sense. You make sense. Kissing you makes sense. Sitting here waiting for a pin does not."

Metal fingers curled in the back of your shirt and did not loosen.

"I know this is pathetic. King Wreck-It versus a needle. Lucy would lose her mind." She laughed into your collar, short. "Don't you dare be gentle like I'm glass. Be obvious. Hands on me. Mouth on me. If I have to get stuck after, I want to walk out remembering you, not the sting. That's a request from your Overlord. Please. Before they come back with the tiny knives."

The van's flank was warm from the last run. Outer Ring wind shoved grit down the lot. Caesar had walked you around to the blind side "to talk formation," then put her forearm across your chest and pinned you to the metal like a bike in a stand. Jacket open. Prosthetic braced by your head. She looked proud of the line she was about to ruin.

"So the wind doesn't take you." She blinked. "Wait. That's not how that goes. So the wind doesn't—anyway. You're not going anywhere. Point stands."

She laughed at herself, then used the laugh to get closer, thigh slotting between yours, her chest flush to the bodysuit zipper.

"I meant stay. I meant I wanted you here. I meant I didn't want to say that in front of the pit." Her mouth was already on your jaw. "Lucy grades my speeches. She doesn't get this one. Hands on my waist. I crush the panel, that's the van's problem. King Wreck-It clause."

Someone yelled for a wrench on the other side of the lot. Caesar did not move except to kiss you properly, messy, grinning when she had to come up for air.

"See? Straightforward." She bumped her forehead to yours. "You, wall, me not letting go. I can feel you leaving space. Don't. I didn't drag an Overlord around a van to be polite. Belt's right there. Use it. I'll keep the wind off you. Or whatever I said. You get it?"

The bunk curtain had been a suggestion. Caesar's jacket was on the crate. The prosthetic was still on her, metal forearm planted by your head, mint hair a wreck against the pillow. She had you under her and she was mid-sentence about "tactical bonding" when the door opened without a knock.

Lucy took in the room, the jacket, the fact that Caesar had not moved, and shut her eyes like it physically hurt. "Caesar. I left you alone for twelve minutes."

"Lucy." Caesar did not get off you. "Hi. We're busy. Formation stuff."

"That is not a formation." Lucy's voice climbed, then she aimed it at the wall instead of your faces. "I am going to stand in the hall. I am going to talk. You are going to listen with whatever brain you have left. The supply run is delayed because someone—you—signed the wrong crate. Again. Honestly."

The door clicked. Lucy kept talking through it, heels sharp on the wood. "And if this is how you 'welcome guests' now I will write a policy. A laminated one. Don't test me, you moron."

Caesar dropped her forehead onto your shoulder and snorted, still settled over you, the metal hand not going anywhere, her chest pinning the excuse flat. "She's not coming back in. That's the Lucy special. Lecture from cover." She kissed the place her laugh had landed. "I should go fix the crate. I will. In a minute. You heard her. Twelve minutes already gone. Might as well finish the minute I paid for."

Lucy, muffled: "I can hear you, you disaster."

"Love you too!" Caesar called, then looked at you like the hall was weather. "Stay quiet enough she thinks I'm listening. I'm not. I'm here. Hands back where they were. Overlord's still on shift. Just a different kind."

You opened the bunk door on Caesar sitting cross-legged with a paperback held too close to her face. Not the sweet one from under the frame. This cover did not bother pretending. She slammed it shut on her thumb, went red to the ears, and pointed the prosthetic at you like that was a legal defense.

"Research." The word died. "Okay. Not research. I was—look. They did this thing in chapter six. Against a wall. Then the couch. The dialogue was stupid and I still stayed up. Don't stand there looking at me like I got caught stealing fuel."

She tossed the book on the blanket face-down and dragged you in by the belt before the courage could leave. Jacket half-off. Her chest hitting your shirt. Mint hair in her eyes.

"I kept thinking about it with you. That's the part I wasn't gonna say." She muttered it into your collar, then forced her head up. "I want to try the wall bit. Maybe the couch bit. I don't remember the order because I skipped to the—anyway. You in? Me not explaining it to Lucy. Ever."

She kissed you like she had practiced on the page and then forgotten the choreography, clumsy and hungry.

"We're blaming the author either way." She laughed, shaky, and didn't hide it. "Hands. I marked the page. We don't need the page. I already know what I wanted out of it. That's you, here, not treating me like the Overlord for one hour. Can we do that? Say yes before I start quoting and ruin it. Please. I already ruined the sneak-reading. Might as well finish the thought."

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