Survival Of The Fittest

On Aurora's home field, during early afternoon, two groups of men were lining up for war.

Jerseys flashed with numbers and names, coaches grunting out commands to their teams, words of encouragement and abuse. The crowd roared as the punter of the opposing side booted the ball into the air, spiralling and wobbling with momentum, both teams racing after it. The sun beat down on the assembled players and fans, glinting off of the uprights and making the yard markers gleam against the green.

Brandon Baxter was oblivious to it all.

No one man should have all that power
The clocks tickin' I just count the hours
Stop trippin' I'm tripping off the power
Kill that, fuck that, the world's ours.

He sat on the bench, accompanied solely by his music pulsing in his ears, his gloved hands clasped between his knees as he throbbed, his body moving slowly, easily to the music. Sometimes the guys made fun of him for the way he got himself settled for a play; joking that he looked like a schizophrenic man on a park bench. Any other time before a play, he'd have laughed it off, waving it away with good humour.

But not before a play.

Before a play, before a game, he squeezed his eyes shut and allowed himself to relax the barrier of control he had on his emotions, his anger, his violence. Before a game, he rocked back and forth to ear busting hip hop and rock and roll, turning the volume up on his little white iPod, dwarfed by his hand and pristine next to his scars, and allowed himself to hear nothing but the music and the voices from his past.

He envisioned his father driving a red pickup when he was five years old; chuckling and swearing, asking him pointed questions about his mother. How was she doing? Does she miss me? She got a boyfriend, yet? When did she buy that new television?

He saw his aunt on her deathbed, the way a woman who was so buoyant and filled with life was emancipated, rail thin and weak, barely strong enough to smile.

He experienced the sinking feeling of anger when his mother walked down the aisle, Dave standing at the end of it in a suit, his fists clenching inside the sleeves of his tux and toes curling in the fancy, shiny shoes he wore.

They were all flashes, gusts of wind that fanned and fueled the fire. As the music pulsed, as Kanye shouted about his power, as he rocked back and forth, his fingers entwined, knuckles squeezing. His eyes were still screwed shut as the images flashed further and further through his mind. Punching Timothy in the fifth grade. A facebook message from Dad about not being able to come this weekend. Dave offhandedly insulting a penalty he received. The Seahawks losing. Not being able to take the car this weekend because his brother called dibs. A C on a math test.

Each and every incident was blown up, blown out of proportion, transformed into hideous, ugly crimes against him. He rocked faster, the music pulsed louder, his hands squeezed tighter. The death of his bird. Detention last week. Fighting with Dave about going to a party. Extra homework assignments.

Rocking, pulsing, squeezing. Over and over and over, the images came and went, making his teeth grit, shoulders shake, knees bounce lightly with the eagerness to find, search, destroy. His gloves shook with the force of the pressure he was exerting, imagining it was an opposing jersey, rending it. Tearing it. Needing to release the rage before he -

Something came down hard on his pad, and the earbuds were ripped from his ears.

"Defense, you're up!" hollered the coach.

Like a shot, Baxter's helmet was jammed on his head, the mouth guard wrapped around the bars of his cage was popped into his mouth, chewed at until it fit properly. He sprinted onto the field, pulse throbbing, anger a sharp ache at the front of his brain, eyes wild, searching.

When the opposing team came out of their huddle, lined up at the ball, Baxter stood at his full height, raised a finger, and pointed towards the quarterback, waited until the kid raised his head and noticed him.

With all the menace in his face, anger in his heart, and the revving of his pulse, Baxter grinned around his mouth guard. He envisioned Dave's face on the other youth's, his father's face, his mother's face. Cancer, teachers, other kids. He felt his biceps jump at the thought of getting his arms around the teenager, tossing him to the floor, running him over. Still holding the smaller boy's gaze, he mouthed the words that he felt down to his core.

Your ass is mine.

((Michelle Wexler continued from So We Settled for the Center of Town))

"Great meet, you guys!" Michelle enthused at the girls of the team while the captain of the boys was at the other end of the pool no doubt berating them. She was always of the opinion that a more friendly approach was better and truly, the girls did do a better job than the boys.

"Not a ton of turnout, I guess," she said biting her lip and looking up at the clock.

"There's a football game, today," said a blonde sophomore named Stephanie.

"Oh, well mystery solved," said Michelle with a shrug. The girls looked at her for a moment and she shifted her hips and crossed her arms. "You guys want to see the end, hu?" she said after 30 seconds of silence and the girls did that girl shriek that signaled good news. Michelle smiled and covered her ears.

"Fine fine, we'll go see the end. Let's go."

The girls all walked the short distance from the pool to the field, gossiping and chatting, though some had opted to go back to the lockers. Michelle and the other girls posted themselves at a space in the front of the bleachers where they could squeeze in. She also noticed that the arrival of 20 girls in Aroura High racing swim suits was not unnoticed. She had to smile . This is probably what some of the younger girls wanted.

Let them have their fun.

She leaned against the rail to watch the last play. Some of the cheerleaders looked less than thrilled to be showed up by the arrival of a gaggle of girls wearing even less than them. Michelle shrugged apologetically. Back to the game she hooted a bit and yelled "Yeah, go Aurora!"

The D-Line was set, dropping into three point stances, their bodies low and curved forwards like starting sprinters on the mark. The white of the helmets caught the afternoon sun, the blue uniforms shining as shoulders shifted, teenagers paced the field like jaguars, threats were hollered and war cries erupted. Over top of the field chatter, the crowd's noisy din continued, slowly growing in fervor as the game clock read 0:05, the scoreboard solid at 17 - 14, home team.

Offense had one last play. One last try to get fifty five yards, and end the game with a victory. In order to do so, they'd have to march past an Aurora defense that was raring to go.

"Motion, motion!" A safety cried from behind Baxter, movement on the offense line. The quarter back - shrimpy, scrawny number 8 - moved behind the center, curled his hands for the ball between the beefy kid's legs. Brandon didn't take his eyes off of him, feral grin still on his face.

"Red eighty!" called the kid, his eyes scanning the field.

The defense shifted. Baxter slid a step to his right.

"Reeeeed eighty!" the kid hollered again, and Baxter subtly leaned his shoulder away, facing the guard in front of him, eyes still focused on number eight.

The kid's gaze met his. Baxter grinned again. The kid stuttered.

"H-hike!"

An explosion of breath and pads erupted in Baxter's ears as he slammed into the man in front of him, jerking his jersey down and hauling his shoulder upwards, using his height to smash his right shoulder pad into the opposing player's cage. As the guard staggered, Baxter spun around him, centering and finding number eight as he dropped back to pass. The fullback moved to intercept Baxter, but momentum and determination carried Brandon forwards in a sudden juke step, dancing through the block and leaving the fullback groping at air.

Like a bear bearing down on a kitten, Brandon collided with number eight just as he reared back to pass, the ball slipping through the smaller boy's fingers as the crack of bones, flesh and padding smashed into each other. Eight went down in a heap and Baxter rolled over him, dazed slightly from the force of the collision, scrambling for the loose ball -

And caught a flash of material that might as well have been dyed curves, accenting the already wonderful amount of flesh being displayed by the swimsuit. Because of the collision, Brandon almost considered them angels, here to watch his victory-

Then his hand touched rubber, and he turtled over the loose football, waiting until the ref blew the whistle before leaping to his feet, holding the ball high, and whooping. The game clock read 0:00. Aurora had won.

Taking off his helmet and still clutching his pigskin prize, Baxter spat out his mouth guard, sauntered over to the rail, and flashed what he considered his most charming grin through the mass of dark facial hair. He kept it aimed at Michelle as he stood in front of her, placing the football on the rail next to where she stood.

"Now this is what I call school spirit," he said, still panting from the exertion, glowing from the victory, and running his dark gaze in admiration over her... outfit. He'd ride this high for a while before coming back down.

The last play started and resulted in total chaos of movement. Michelle stood on her tip toes and craned her neck to try and see what was going on. Suddenly Brandon rammed full on and hard into a smaller guy from the other team. The kid went down like a sack of potatoes and the girls hushed. A few gasped and turned to each other.

Michelle covered her mouth instinctively and stared to see if the boy would get up.

"Do you think he's okay?" she said quietly to Kathy at her side. The whistle rang out and the team celebrated. The girls tried to recover from the shock of the last play and started clapping, a few who weren't phased threw out WOO HOOs.

Michelle clapped vigorously, though she couldn't hear her own clapping over the din of the victory. She could see a few of the swimmers starting to angle for the boys, waving and calling out. A football boyfriend was probably pretty desirable, especially among the freshman and sophomores. The cheerleaders continued to look less than amused by their presence.

At that point, Michelle was so tired from the meet she gave up caring if the cheer squad was ready to slash their tires.

Brandon was walking up to the girls and seemed to appreciate their presence. She looked sideways at the team discretely, missing his up and down evaluation. Michelle looked back at him, he seemed dead tired too.

"Good game," she said, resting on the railing. "Is everyone okay? That was a nasty fall."

Brandon's grinned lessened to a smile as he shrugged his large, padded shoulders, his neck lolling to one side in an attempt to relieve tension. The breath still escaped him in slow, controlled pants as he lifted a cleat to scratch absently at his ankle. The thing about sweat in socks; once they dried out, they itched like crazy.

The itchy ankle seemed to spawn a sense of the tinglies throughout him - his leg, his hip, his beard - but he didn't want to be touching his soaked sock and then rubbing his hand all over his face in front of the pretty woman. Who had a suit that was all but painted on.

"It would've been worse if he had a look at your crew of knockouts, here," he said, waving a hand to the assembled swim team. The gesture had him turning slightly, catching sight of number eight rolling to his hands and knees, lifting his helmet, and dry heaving onto the ground as one of his offensive line moved to help him stand. Baxter had the decency to wince in sympathy, remembering a few hard hits that triggered the same reaction in him, before returning his gaze to Michelle.

"He'll be fine. It's a rough sport," he said, flashing his grin again, "and I'm probably not the first guy to hit him."

Changing the subject, he jabbed a finger in the air between them. "I think I've seen you - though, admittedly much less of you, around," He snapped his fingers, exaggerating a thinking face as he squinted at her face, his mouth curling into a deep, thoughtful frown.

"Uhhhh... Don't tell me, on the tip of my tongue..."

((Enter Cody Patton, from fuck all if I know what his last thread was.))

Cody swung a playful jab right into Baxter's right shoulder pad.

"Niiiiiiice fucking hit dude," the quarterback of the Aurora Pelicans dropped a compliment onto the defensive lineman that had shut down the game. Cody had watched the last few plays of the drive with earnest from the bench. They had been moments more tense than usual; he was always itching to get back onto the field when defense was out, but with the game resting on such a critical moment, he could almost feel his nerves jittering like they did his Freshman year.

"So fuckin' glad you guys didn't throw away the points we got you. Eh, eh?" Cody smiled as he said it, as it was just some classic ribbing from an offensive player to a defensive one. The two halves of the team did it all the time, but everybody knew you couldn't have a successful team without either half.

Well, except the kicker and punter. They were fair game for just about anybody.

It was right about then that Cody's tunnel vision opened up a little and he noticed that Baxter was totally talking to somebody, and that somebody was a girl. "Shiiiiiit dude, didn't mean to get in the way. Am I interrupting?" Cody laughed and held up both hands.

"Hey!" he said with a quick smile to Michelle.

"That's good, it's rough yeah," she said in relief now that he seemed to be getting up. She relaxed a bit and stopped biting her bottom lip. The girls were off and mingling by now, leaning over the rails in a similar fashion as her to talk to the boys who were trying to act like they weren't dead tired while the girls pretended the same.

Michelle supposed there wouldn't be any dates after the game even if both parties tried. They'd both just fall asleep.

She was snapped back to Brandon when he'd made somewhat lascivious mention of her attire. She blushed a bit, but kept her game face otherwise. The swim guys didn't look twice at the swim girls because they spend 2 hours a day every day with them in swim suits.

She stared blankly at him as he tried to guess her name. Then Cody had come up to greet her as well. Michelle pasted on an awkward, fake smile and waved back.

If Brandon was known to be a bit gruff at times Cody was known to be a total prick. Not a great friend to the nerdier kids that made up a lot of Michelle's friends. However, Michelle was awful at confrontation and chose to pretend to be happy and hope he didn't say anything that would break that.

"Nice going, Cody," she said trying to sound enthusiastic.

Baxter almost had the name when he was clapped on the back by his quarterback, his rubber mask expression turning to a grin as the team captain showered him with praise. He laughed, the slight annoyance of the sudden interruption washing away as the glow from the victory shone above any and all attempts at flirting with the pretty swim team girl in the skintight suit.

"Well if it isn't General Patton himself, come to talk to the troops. T'weren't nothin', Chief," he said, easily, "though we could've used a few more tallies on our side of the board. Not that I don't like a good last play stand."

Brandon had nothing but the healthiest of respect for Cody on the field. In practice, the two matched up fairly often as the starting defensive lineman and quarterback, and he knew that Cody had just as tough a stiff arm as he did a throwing one. "Saw you get your bell rung, too, General," he said, easily. "Still think it was a late hit, though."

He wondered how he could signal to the quarterback to get lost so he could have a shot at a different kind of victory in the near future. Specifically something to do with a curvy brunette. And speaking of brunettes...

He suddenly snapped his fingers, rounding back to Michelle. "Wexler. I knew I'd get it. I think we shared a class somewhere down the line. I didn't know you were into watching us meatheads ram into each other and grunt in appreciation."

He tapped the helmet at his feet for emphasis.

"Ha, what an asshole!" Cody's smile still seemed genuine and rather hard to suppress. "Put a few more on the board, he says. You should just be glad you guys didn't blow it for us!"

Another friendly jab to let Brandon know jests were jests, and Cody looked between the two a little more. Having actually given Michelle a good look, Cody was able to recognize her. Brandon actually mentioning her last name (one that Cody totally would have forgotten) helped too. Michelle... yeah, he knew her. Okay looking, but had some odd company and was going out with a chick.

Was Brandon totally trying to get with her? Cody smirked with this revelation. If anything, this was going to be fun to watch.

"Weeeeeeell, I'll leave you too alone. Maybe I'll convince special teams they totally won it for-... ... Shoot, they did score a field goal and keep it from going into overtime. Shit."

He chuckled to himself and turned away, taking a few steps.

Still totally listening, though.

(Mike E continued from somewhere, I give no shits. Katherine Ryan is an NPC due to the fact I couldn't get her registered for v5 in time.)

In the case of 'does it hurt more to get punched by a heavyweight boxer or to be tackled by a 250-pound football player', Mike had to say the jury was still out, but leaning towards the fat guy. Sure, he'd got him back later, but a wall of blubber smashing him to earth out of nowhere just plain wasn't fun. Yeah... he'd rather be running, or having one of Roldan's guys trying to knock his head off in sparring.

That didn't stop him slinging his helmet off and coming over to join his captain and teammates. Besides, seeing girls like Michelle, Kathy and Stephanie in those tight swimsuits after a tough game like that wasn't so bad. He waved to the group of swimmers and footballers, trying not to notice the little wink he got from Kathy. Baxter seemed busy with Michelle, though, so like Cody, he elected not to bother him.

"'Sup, Cap?" Not how he'd usually greet Patton, but hey, he was covered in sweat and grime, something like that was fine under the circumstances. Especially after juuust getting by on their last stand like they had. "Was all that part of the plan or were we just making things up as we went? It can be hard to tell with you sometimes."

Just a good-natured rib. Lord knew he took enough from the captain for it to be justified.

Cody started talking to Brandon and Michelle began wondering if there would be some opportune moment for her to sneak out and make her way back to the locker room to retrieve her clothes and go home. By this point she'd done her captainly duty of going with the girls to watch the game and had already talked about the meet so she could leave and tell the girls she ditched because she was tired at the next practice.

There was another release of tension within her when Cody went on his way without causing any trouble. Michelle reflected that she never realized what a social minefield this kind of event was. She waved half-heartedly as Cody wandered off somewhere, having not a clue what he meant by "special team." It wasn't worth the risk to her to ask, nor did she really want to know, maybe something offensive.

She stood up straight like someone had given her a little shock when he said her last name.

"Oh, I'm sure we've had a class together somewhere down the line. Uh, I mostly go by Michelle. Wexler is like, what my brother calls me or what I get called at girl scouts. Kind of like, drill sergeant-y sounding, don't ya think? Really official sounding and I'm not very official," she laughed, scrunching up her wet hair.

"I mean, normally I'm not really into FOOTBALL so much. I've only been to one game before this and that was mostly to hang out. It was never a big thing for my family, but I can tell you guys work hard. I wouldn't be willing to smash into dudes build like fridges so I tip my hat to you guys. We just had a competition and the girls wanted to come by. They're putting up a good face, but I know they're wiped."

Brandon nodded absently at Cody as he walked away, smiling somewhat at the mention of Special Teams. There was always a social ladder to climb in football; people you could rag on, people you couldn't. As starting quarterback and starting defensive line, Brandon and Cody had earned the right to rag on just about anyone on the team, especially those who just came out for starting kickoffs and when they needed a quick three points.

"Lots of competition today, then," Brandon put in, nodding in seriousness at the swim captain's response and glancing down the line of ladies in swimwear. When he saw a familiar face, his own split into a wide grin. Cheerfully, he gave a little finger wave towards Katherine, who waved back with just as much aplomb.

"I've always preferred the drill sergeant approach more than the casual one. Then again, I've got a nazi for a coach," he said, turning his attention and his grin back towards Michelle. She scrunched her hair and his grin softened somewhat, watching her fingers in it. Absently, he ran a hand through his own short cut, sending tiny droplets of sweat flying upwards. One of the people in the crowd pointed to him and let out some form of wolf whistle. Brandon hardly blinked.

"So, how'd the Pelicans do in the water?"

"All..." Cody raised his arms in a gesture that the guys on the team would often hold to say 'I got this, bro' as he looked at Michael. "... Part of the plan. Just wanted to keep the game interesting, you know?"

Cody lined up his shoulders with Mike so the two boys were effectively standing side-by-side, and faced away from Michelle and Brandon. There were plenty of other happenings going around on the field to watch from this angle: coaches did their post game celebration (nothing too crazy, this wasn't the playoffs yet), players were talking to each other and folks in the stands, and the opposing team was trudging off in defeat.

"By the way," Cody lowered his voice with a snicker. "I think Baxter's trying to get into Michelle's pants. I'm trying to figure out how to fuck with him, but I think this is going to fuck itself. Wanna listen?"

((Francis St. Ledger continued from A Tree Grows in Seattle))

Francis' knowledge of football was limited, to say the least. He'd played it in the back yard with Darius a couple of times, but that had mostly been an excuse to run into each other at high speeds with their parents' permission. Soccer had always been more of his thing. All Francis knew about football was that there was a lot of running, a lot of carrying a sorry excuse for a "ball", and occasionally some kicking and throwing. Or something.

And yet, despite his shocking knowledge of the sport, Francis had come to watch the game. The sole reason for this was that there were a few members of the popular crowd that played football, and were playing today. Normally that wouldn't have enticed Francis in the slightest, but the guys in this case were people like Mike and Cody, rather than Travis and Miles. Those guys were fine with Francis.

Plus, there were always cheerleaders at games. And at this particular game, members of the swim team as well. Always an added bonus, Francis had to admit.

The game had finished, and after applauding with everyone else, Francis had made his way towards the pitch. As luck would have it, the two guys he'd thought of earlier, Mike and Cody, were talking to each other. Francis made his way towards them at a light jog.

"Yo, Mike, Cody. I'd say good game, but honestly, I've got no clue what just happened." Francis said as he reached the two. "I'll never understand why you spend so much time with the ball in your hands in a game called football."

It was then that Francis noticed the two guys seemed to be concentrating on something behind them. Francis took a quick glance behind them, and saw Brandon Baxter talking with one of the members of the swim team. Thank God Baxter hadn't spotted him. Francis was never in the mood to listen to his particular brand of idiocy.

"Somethin' goin' on with Baxter?" Francis muttered.