Spilling Guts

Part 70 - Impact

Will climbed to his feet, feeling Louis slide along his insides. When he had held Louis earlier, he had hesitated, wondering if swallowing Louis should be considered one of those boundaries Balcuwitz had talked to him about. That Louis had asked a favor, however small, meant that he could at least talk about boundaries.

Not that either of them had a choice about Will swallowing Louis when Rachel's test was on the line.

But once it happened, once Louis slid into the core of him, it seemed fine.

Will slipped on the glove as a bruise grew in the back of his mind, a memory. Deja vu?

Rachel's voice startled Will out of his stupor. "Test round four, Agent Rowe, host to Agent Patriarch. Six punches. Go."

Right, thought Will as he moved the table aside. Get my punches done, get Louis out, then tiramisu.

Because I swallow blonds before breakfast.

Wow, where did that come from, Eastwood?

Will shrugged off the intrusive thought and took his stance; this time a bit wider, arm coming at an angle. An attempt of a haymaker like Louis had done. Go big or go home. He was from Iowa, damn it!

Swing. The glove glanced off like a flat pebble off a lake.

Bong!

"1,506 newtons."

Will nearly walked away in shame.

Louis snorted over the Sprecht. "Knew you couldn't punch right."

Will lined up the next punch. "Got you hard enough in California."

Boong!

"1,898 newtons." Better.

"You had the element of surprise. And I barely got a bruise." Louis should have sounded offended. He didn't. Instead Will felt a slither inside, increasing the sense of oddness. "The most violent I've seen you is holding an Oreo under milk until there were no bubbles left. And I won that fight."

"You did not; it was a tie." And despite that aura of frustration, anger, and violence around that incident, a little part of Will's mind went to the moment Louis sat astride him, shirt wet, bracing Will's hands on either side of his head, breathing hard.

That... should not... be as hot as I remember it. It was a fight, and it did not end up with us making out like heroes do in the movies.

"Less, chit chat, more punching," commanded Rachel.

Will took his stance again. Nothing fancy, a straight punch. Aim at the middle of the concentric circles. Simple.

"Do what I do," said Louis. "Imagine the bulls eye is Martin Zachs' face."

That would be effective.

The shape of the bulls eye and the dark plate blurred. A dark suit, thin fingers, slicked back hair, and a gun barrel ruffling the hair at the back of Will's head.

Martin Zachs behind him, breathing down his neck, hand weighing down the punching glove so he can't move, can't swing, can't defend himself.

Will's breath came heavy and thick, like trying to breath while facing a fire hose.

"Need a break?" called Rachel, her voice thin and faint against the pounding in his ears.

Will felt the hot splash of a bullet impacting his abdomen and then the cold sensation of kneeling in front of a grave. Louis'.

No. I wouldn't have let that happen. He's fine. Louis wasn't there.

But he is there. Now. You can feel it.

A small shove from the inside, like a fish flopping on dry land. "Hey fanboy, what-"

Will, kneeling, jolted to one side, jostling a camera tripod as he yelled in shock. His fight for breath echoed in the chamber and further fogged his mind.

Will wanted Louis out. No! Louis needs to stay inside, it's safer there.

"Really?" crooned the apparition of Martin Zachs as he caressed the barrel of a gun against Will's stomach. "And does it feel good?"

No, no, no. Not safe. Not safe. Doesn't matter what it feels like, it'll kill him. Get him out.

The grave earth of Will's abdomen cramped up. His head ached, a warm wetness on his upper lip.

Whatever Louis and Rachel were telling him through the SkySprecht went to white noise as he tasted copper over the artificial cherry in his mouth.

He could imagine his stomach as a meat grinder. The mere idea sent him to all fours, face pale as paper. Nose bleeding, and mind caught in a waking nightmare, Will's body retched.