Thoughts, Prayers, Sweeps and Stares

Dean Basilone looked over the group chat once again, checking to see if Skye had replied to his text.

@ the 5th u comin?, the message read. It was sent at 12:32 p.m., July 29.

Leaning against the wall of the underdog cohort, the son of Securitas put the phone down to take in the landscape. Of all the menial tasks that came with his centurionship, sweeping the barracks was one of the more doable tasks. Unlike sentencing troublemakers and filing mission reports, sweeps got him out and around Camp Jupiter, which was always a nice thing. The California sun was always warm, and the camp was rather beautiful in that rolling hills kind of way.

He checked the phone again, taking note of the time — 12:40.

Eight minutes? Seriously?

Despite appreciating the task at hand, he was not looking forward to who he had to do it with. Skye Maddox was a bit of a special case. Recently returned from an agreed-upon death, Maddox spent the better part of the summer hospitalized and was only back, like, that week or so.

While the likelihood of her being legitimately crazy was the start of Dean’s hesitation, though it was not the end of it. Oh it was not the end of it.

Skye, a first cohort centurion from a wealthy and eminent New Roman family, was the very antithesis of everything he good and fine.

She slept in her grandparents home instead of the barracks (Which are already loaded like why the—).

Her grandpa controlled the conversation at camp as the EIC of that rag “The Gazette.”

And — and this was new — her stupid quest left Caroline as AWOL, though that probably  meant she was dead. And regardless of how she was, Caroline was one of his people. And now she’s gone, and for what? A flood of sympathy to come Skye’s way?

F*** that. Dean was not about to cry for the poor rich girl from the first. So what was he going to do?

He was going to check his phone again, noting that 10 minutes had passed with an annoyed sigh.

Dean acknowledged Skye’s arrival with an unamused glare. At least she had reasons, and relevant ones at that.

“Right,” he exhaled, “We’ll keep Reddy in mind.”

Pushing himself off the barrack wall, Dean straightened out his shirt and gave the horizon one last look.

“That being said, you ready?”

Following Skye into the first barrack, Dean began down the row opposite of the centurion.

While there were several classes of contraband to search for, items that could be used to vandalize were of particular interest to Dean. After Reddy’s street art and the events that transpired, everything from aerosol cans to lighters to the rare chisel and hammer were of enough to warrant a mention in his postmortem report. Usually the contraband was not enough to shackle someone to stable duty, but the people who defended owning a pocket knife by calling it a “multitool” tended to find their schedules less flexible.

To uncover these items, Dean employed the brutish technique of turning over everything he could. Mattresses were lifted, pillows were shaken, sheets were pulled back and sometimes even whole bunks were moved. While inspections were marketed as a way to reward legionnaires for their dedication to the legion’s high bed-making standards, it was really just a way to bust people without due process.

While shaking a pillow or climbing down from a top bunk, Dean would shoot a brief glance at Skye before resuming his abuse of linens.

“You find anything yet?,” he called out, slipping the the Leatherman from bunk 32A into his bag.

“Ecstasy? Since when have there been raves in New Rome?”

Albeit parties were not really his scene and he typically did not worry about drugs at camp that much - people gotta let loose somehow - Dean was taken aback by the fact that MDMA had made its way in. The pills were a new one for him, and what little Skye found may be only the tip of the psychedelic iceberg.

“You uh... you think they got it from that weed guy? Or does he stay away from psychedelics?”

While he could not trust her to get two legionnaires home, Dean took Skye’s words about the drugs at face value with a nod and subdued sight. For all her bougie drawbacks she at least seemed to know her drug stuff.

“Right… I say bag the pills and the joint and take down who’s bunk it is,” he suggested. “We can follow up later and see if they know anything, maybe find someone dealing or running or something. Like, if they’re moving ecstasy who knows what the hell they got coming.”

Trusting Skye enough to do the sensible thing, he moved onto frisking bunk 32B.

Halfway through probing 34B Skye shifted Dean away from empty pillows to literary contraband.

“The f*** is that?”

Even across the room Dean could tell there was something off about the notebook, its red flags only flying higher the closer he got. Half naked women cut with the care and thoughtfulness of a ransom note adorned the abused cardboard cover like a sticker-bombed Honda while the multiple dog-eared pages confirmed that whoever owned this depraved collage was doing more than ogling the aesthetics.

With a sour grimace Dean eyed over the cover from a clearer distance, taking in the tasteless tablet that — as a glance over his clipboard revealed — belonged to juvenile virtuoso Finn Reddy.

Careful to not give Skye the wrong idea, he asked sheepishly “Can I see it?”

“Very funny,” Dean said upon receiving the book.

He flipped to one of the many tabbed pages, landing on the “N” campers. On each page an unsettling level of detail was taken in profiling a particular camper. One page dedicated to “Bess” Nakamura, another to Zayna Nassar, Mabel Narney…

And Reagan Nary.

“Burn it,” he said tossing the closed book onto the damned bunk it came from. “This… thing needs to be burned yesterday.”

Dean took a beat to breath a bit, possibly recomposing himself to something that was not simmering contempt toward the continued existence of that Chicagoan rat.

“Reddy deserves worse. Between this and the d!cks on the Senate and that shit he took, he needs to get a bit more than a slap on the wrist.”

“And to think I gave him community service,” he said as a slight chuckle slipped out. He turned to face the other witness to the cursed art project.

“There were pictures in there. Was there a camera with his things?”

“Fifty Shades is just bad Twilight fanfic anyway,” Dean said. “If he wants to read that crap more power to him. But that printer is what we want. With that and the book I feel like there’s enough to slap him with something.”

In his limited knowledge of printer technology, he believed that maybe the images were stored somewhere within the printer. And unless there was some kind of password` protection they could probably just plug it in and start searching.

“The journal is disgusting, but if we can find out where those pictures were taken we could get Reddy in for so many things that he will never see sunlight again.”

“Well, you’re probably right about that,” Dean replied with a sigh. He began to move back to his side of a room before an idea stopped him in his tracks.

“Hold up,” he said, taking a beat to pull a 180 heel turn fit for a ballerina. “When you say ‘supreme court,’ are you taking about the United States’ Supreme Court? The one that handles cases for civilians of the United States? Which also has to apply to US laws regarding civilians? And decidedly does not follow any laws outside of the system, including Roman Law and Legion Bylaws?”

“Okay” he replied, flicking through his sparse list contacts list. He stopped at the lone H contact of “Lily ‘Boss’ ‘Praetor’ Hivens.” As he hovered his thumb over toward the flat blue “call” button, a little thought skipped into his mind at the last second.

What are you even doing? You’re seriously about to call Lily over a phone? You barely even know her, you’re gonna make yourself look bad and you’re gonna just waste her time. Just put down the phone and go bust someone for weed or something.

The thumb moved from over the glass onto the lock button, holding its place while for a long beat.

With a locking click Dean said “Fine; Reddy can keep his phone.”