Editing Getting the Band Together (section)

=='''Surprise'''==

Holden emerged cautiously from beneath the deep shrubbery, his gaze flickering left and right before tilting upward toward the pale glow of the moon. His tangled hair clung to his damp forehead, a testament to the effort that had left him breathless. Slowly, he wiped the sweat from his brow and exhaled.

Rising to his feet, he scanned the empty park. Moonlight bathed the space, casting a soft sheen on his lightly fuzzed chest, still glistening from exertion. His wide-eyed expression held a mix of wonder and disbelief, as if caught between dream and reality. He raked a hand through his unruly hair, smoothing it back as his fingers came away moist.

A glance downward brought a flicker of self-awareness. Though he had never considered his manhood much to boast about, it stirred again, responding in a way that surprised even him. Seventeen years old and hardened by life on the streets, he had spent four years scraping by with odd jobs and busking. Opportunities for intimacy had been rare, fleeting luxuries he could hardly afford to dream about.

Tonight, however, was different. Bliss and awe coursed through him, leaving his mind adrift in the memory of what had just transpired—the highlight of his life thus far.

Then, a firm hand, insistent and unyielding, brought him back to the moment. Startled, he glanced down. Mismatched eyes, one green and one hazel, shimmered in the moonlight, framed by vibrant blue hair. Her mischievous smile captivated him, demanding his full attention.

Wordlessly, he knelt back into the shadows of the shrubbery, surrendering to her unspoken desires, ready to continue their shared exploration of the night.

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">[[File:Musicline1.jpg]]</div> 

=== '''Calling The Car'''===

Wrecker and Reggy had finished clearing the garage of the Station. Years of disuse and misuse had made various squatters throw everything into the garage. Reggy kept joking with things, a doll, a bent bicycle, a fur seat cover. Wrecker had kept them in beer. The smell of mundane cleaning supplies filled the air of the mid-winter day.

One of the advantages that they had gained from the Day of the Change was they had gained greater strength and endurance. Their adventures since had improved them dramatically. Their passage through the Sigil of Fort Garland had changed them even further. Power has its privileges.

They had spent several hours hauling debris from the garage to reveal the cement below. Sweeping got the last of the clutter. That was followed with Clean cantrips to remove decades of oil, gas, grease, and blood.

Reggy said, “Well, that wasn’t too bad. The two storage rooms won’t take long. Though the one with the mattresses is going to take something more than cantrips. Do you remember the Low Order sorcery Clean spell?”

Wrecker shook his head. “No, I didn’t pay attention to the Low Order Sorcery stuff. Too much finger-waving time, lynchpins, and stuff. I always feel like I might be casting something, sneeze, and blast off half my head. Let Gadget clean them when she brings her little band here. We can’t do everything. We don’t need those rooms. The living room has two couches. Those the Clean cantrips can manage till we can get some help.”

Wrecker said, “Then we are ready to see if the summoning will work.”

Reggy nodded, “After some sleep and some beer.”

A few hours later, the two soldiers had stripped down and cast Clean cantrips on their clothes. They had sat in the living room that had once been a convenience store lobby and cast Mend cantrips on their clothes and Chill cantrips on the beer. Getting dressed again, they returned to the garage.

Wrecker chuckled. “When I was a truck driver, I never imagined that one day I would be some kind of half-wizard. OK, the Army made me a soldier for a time, but the rest is just bizarre.”

Reggy nodded, “When I was Denver Police, I thought people who dressed up like elves and orcs were crazy. Now I’m an orc. The Sigil of Fort Garland made me able to become a human again if I want as well as a weird deer thing with wings. I’m not sure I know what a normal life is anymore. But I am enjoying wrecking these thugs.”

Wrecker opened the garage door out to a silent street that rarely saw traffic. Outside, two large dogs looked in at the pair. They felt Gadget's bond urge them to obey the pair. They walked in and settled against a wall out of the way.

The soldiers of Gadget's army settled down to business. “Let’s get our ride.”

Wrecker and Reggy knelt on the cold, cleaned cement, the faint scent of ozone lingering from their earlier cantrips. With careful precision, they drew glowing chalk sigils into twin circles, their lines pulsing faintly with otherworldly energy. Wrecker’s form rippled as he shrank into the squat, rugged shape of a dwarf, his beard thickening like wildfire. Across from him, Reggy’s skin darkened to a deep emerald hue, tusks jutting slightly as his orc form took shape. With synchronized movements, they raised shimmering symbols, their edges crackling like firelight. The garage filled with a low hum, as if the walls themselves held their breath.

Time passed as the two concentrated on the sigils before them, glowing blue and white. Small sparks appeared at junctions where lines crossed.

Soon after the stroke of midnight, a horn bleated as a purple and white 55 Bel-Air turned off the street into the space between the odd pair of friends. Moments later, its exquisite paint scheme changed to a scratched black and a rusty white with a satisfied hum. The car's license plate said, “Strut.”

The pair put a hand on the car's hood. They smiled. Wrecker said, “Hello, boy. You ready to rock and roll?” The engine roared, and the pipes belched a burst of fire.

Reggy stood, “Let’s cruise.”

Wrecker held a door open, and the two dogs leapt into the backseat. He climbed behind the steering wheel with a big smile. Reggy lit a cigar as they backed out of the garage. Three dogs of Gadget's pack skipped in to guard the open garage door.

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">[[File:Musicline1.jpg]]</div> 

=== '''Lucky and the Ugly Ferret'''===

Wrecker and Reggy walked into the quiet, darkened bar, thick with the despair that clung to the place once dominated by the Riders. The bartender, whom Wrecker had dubbed Lucky, was sitting backward on the bar, pouring himself a pint. He looked up and slipped down onto the ground, his expression shifting to one of suspicion as he remembered the last time the two had been there.

"Ah... what can I get you... fellas?" he asked hesitantly.

Wrecker took a seat. "Well, you had a bottle of Old Crow. I know because I took it. Do you happen to have any more?"

Reggy wandered over to the dark booth once inhabited by Black Carl. He peered closely at it before stepping to a doorway covered by a ragged cloth, glancing beyond it.

Lucky brought up a bottle and pushed it toward Wrecker. "Is my tab still good?" Wrecker asked.

Lucky nodded. "It is. You gave me a grand. Not that I got to keep it."

Wrecker raised an eyebrow. "Those guys still own the place?"

Lucky shook his head. "I own it, but they sort of... well, *own it*. They must be on a long run. It’s been a month since they were here." He glanced at Reggy, who chuckled. "Ah, you looking for something?"

Reggy smirked. "Just looking around. Seeing if any of the guys are back there, you know, hiding? That a storeroom? It’s sure full of stuff."

Lucky stiffened. "No one’s here but me. I haven’t had more than a couple of customers a day for a month. Like I said, they’re on a run. Yeah, that’s their stuff, and you should stay out of there. They don’t take kindly to people messing with their stuff."

Wrecker glanced at Reggy, made a hand sign, and spoke to him in Ang Rin—the language of Ang Ri, where the pair had recently spent significant time. "What’s back there?"

Reggy replied in imperfect Ang Rin, struggling for words. "Storage, junk. Couple of..." He paused, searching for the term for “performance space.” "...arena...sands." Switching to English, he clarified, "A couple of stages." Then, in Ang Rin again, "Good space. Stairs upstairs."

Wrecker turned back to Lucky. "You don’t miss them, I bet. They tax you pretty heavy?"

Lucky let out a bitter laugh. "No, they take *everything*. Luckily, I skim enough to live on. I sent my wife to Alabama—kin—three years ago, after the Reapers moved in on me. For her own sake. Look, they really hated you guys. You don’t want to be here when they come back."

Wrecker smiled. "Having no visible means of support makes us hard to find."

Reggy said, "Anyway, Lucky, if they come back, it’s fine. We know necromancers." He rapped his knuckles against the bar. "Beer, any time I knock." He grabbed the beer Lucky passed him, taking a long swig. Wrecker chuckled.

"My name’s Wrecker. My mother had an attitude. He’s Reggy. You’ve got a nice place here, if it weren’t filled with scumbags."

Lucky scowled. "You making a joke, Wrecker? The place is a shithole. I bought it from the previous owner, who didn’t tell me he had these... scumbags squatting here. I put my life savings into buying the place and did some cleanup. I was hoping to have a nice little spot. At first, I didn’t know why the locals avoided it, and I couldn’t get anyone to tell me what the problem was.

“We moved in upstairs. The back was full of junk—boxes, trash, a couple dozen motorcycles in pieces. I was looking through things and found a trunk full of weed. I couldn’t decide if I should go to the police. Then they showed up. Refused to leave, refused to lock up. Hit on my wife hard. Made it clear they owned the place and everyone in it. Made it clear my wife was their whore now. Pretty sure one raped her, but she wouldn’t say anything."

Wrecker polished off his glass and poured
 another. "That’s when you sent her south?"

Lucky nodded. "Yeah, and took a hell of a beating for it. They all wanted a taste, I guess. Look, I appreciate you guys coming in and all, but if the Riders find you here, they’ll kill you."

Wrecker shrugged. "I’ll risk it. You know them all, their whole chapter? Know about other chapters?"

"Yeah, sure. There are five other chapters—New York, Toronto, Durham, Jacksonville, and New Orleans. Why?"

"How many in their chapter here?"

"Uh, 13 or 14 patched members, a few prospects. About a dozen girls—four are regulars, the others are hangers-on, hooking for them. They provide protection around here. Protection from them, mostly."

Reggy made a tiny hand gesture, and Wrecker nodded. Reggy pulled out a stack of cardstock and laid them on the bar. Lucky’s eyes widened as he saw the photos on the cards. "Who did we miss?"

Lucky stared at the photos, his face pale. "What... what happened to them?"

Reggy chuckled. "Kinetic energy poisoning. They’re not acting. So, who did we miss?"

Lucky examined the photos. "Ah, Gorgie, Little Harold, oh... Smiley. Smiley’s a psycho. None of the girls."

Reggy shrugged. "Yeah... I’ll catch up with Smiley."

"They’re all dead? Uh... look, why are you showing me these?"

Wrecker leaned in, his voice low and deliberate. "Because we need to know how many are loose. We need to know who they got their stuff from, who they did business with, and who else is going to come looking for us. You look scared."

Lucky hesitated. "I don’t want any trouble."

"You’re not in trouble," Wrecker said. "Look, we need a hangout, and you need new customers. What’s upstairs? How much of the building do you own?"

Lucky sighed. "The club extends into the warehouse. A few stories. It’s got a big space back there, but it’s been empty for years. Not a lot going on around here. We’re in the industrial zone but close enough to get foot traffic. With the Riders gone, things might pick up, depending on what you guys are doing here."

Reggy and Wrecker exchanged glances, then nodded.

"Here’s the deal," Wrecker said, his tone casual but firm. "You get protection, money, and a chance to turn this dump into something respectable. We don’t need your money. Keep it. In return, you keep your mouth shut about what we’re doing here. We’ll even pay for our drinks."

He set a roll of bills on the counter. "That’s about five grand. Any questions?"

Lucky hesitated, his gaze darting between the roll of cash and Wrecker’s steely eyes. He thought of his wife in Alabama, safe but far away, and of the Riders’ blood-stained reign. Finally, he nodded. "Alright. But if this goes south, we’ll all be dead."

Reggy asked, "By the way, what’s your name?"

Lucky looked around, weighed his options, and said, "I’ll stick with Lucky."

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">[[File:Musicline1.jpg]]</div> 
Certainly! Below is the continuation of the story, revised to maintain consistent past tense. I'll continue from where we left off, ensuring all tenses are corrected and the narrative flows smoothly.

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">[[File:Musicline1.jpg]]</div>