Chapter Text
Saturday May 30, 1981 Los Angeles, California, USA
It’s 8:00 p.m., twilight; the leaden grey sky of West Hollywood hangs sullen and low over the Tropicana Motor Hotel. Veronica slumps against the worn wood fence, beside the kidney-shaped black pool, taking Polaroids as Corny rants about free will vs. fate.
“Life is what you make it, you know?” He sucks a gout of smoke from his penknife-crafted apple bong, speaks in a breath-held rasp. He wears a t-shirt with a silkscreened Batman (drinking a Colt 45, making metal fingers) and threadbare jeans: his K-Swiss, crossed on the table in front of him, have rainbow shoelaces. His Walkman headphones dangle around his neck, emitting faint, forgotten music. “Like, fate is written in the stars, or whatever. But you don’t gotta do what you just don’t dig. We’re all human beings, man. We have MINDS so we can SEE!”
“Life is RANDOM,” Mac corrects, crossing her arms, making the faint pursed-lips smirk that signifies amusement. Veronica turns the camera on her, and she cocks her head, holding the pose. She’s in another of the shirts Corny sells (Ronald Reagan, waving a light saber, riding a dinosaur) and blue Creepers; there’s a Sandinista flag sewn to her jeans. Her short Mohawk’s a new color tonight (Manic Panic Atomic Turquoise), and the vivid hue matches her eyes. “It’s chaos. People try to impose structure, because they’re SCARED of chaos, but systems always fail. Someone eventually learns to game them, and hoards the profits.”
Mac is the best system-gamer Veronica’s met, so her assessment is ironic. Her clear-eyed realism hasn’t embittered her, though, which never fails to amaze.
“I don’t believe in fate,” Veronica says. She tugs on the strap of her Banana Republic messenger bag, as she stores the camera inside; the stitches patching it hold. “I don’t believe in ANYTHING but the venality of the human race. In the immortal words of Pope, life’s a bitch until you die.”
“Maybe you don’t,” Corny says, squinting at the center of the apple, to check for residual dope. “But, V? Fate believes in YOU!”
Veronica sighs, tucks the comma of her bleached-blonde bangs behind one ear. Her attention glances off Mac’s rebuttal, wanders; she’s tired, and as a bonus, bored. If Mac didn’t know the kind of gossip that solves cases, V wouldn’t be here tonight, taking photos in payment. She’d be sprawled, pajama’ed, on her couch with Backup, hate-watching ‘The Love Boat’. She’s an 18-year-old high school graduate, with a 3.95 GPA. She ought to be shopping for dorm decor, stockpiling textbooks. But her mother’s a thieving lush, and Mars Investigations is in the red. So she’s here instead, patching her life the way she’s patched her clothes….fearing she’ll never leave the nest.
The crowd parts, then, and she spots the evening’s cross to bear, standing by the picnic table, one leg up on the bench. Logan Fucking Echolls. Her musings on venality must have summoned him, somehow. He looks like Preppie royalty, in a pristine white Oxford over a black tee, hundred-dollar jeans. His skin glows with health, his laugh is infectious, and she would swear on her Leica he’s highlighted his hair. He seems about as Punk Rock as Veronica’s toddler cousin; the fact that he’s Hardcore’s Favorite Son makes her resentment surge.
“The singer you want to interview is here,” she tells Mac, nudging with one elbow to interrupt her rant. “You should check him off your list, before he gets wasted and destructive.”
Mac arches her brows. “Still pissed about the riot that shut down the Fleetwood, I see.”
Veronica’s lip curls. “Rich suburban surf punks are taking a HATCHET to our clubs, and he’s the EPITOME of the type. They’ve gleefully wrecked so many, the cops now wear riot gear. I can’t even stand by the STAGE anymore, without getting a boot to the gut; the inventors of the HB Strut should be SHOT.”
“You sound like a forty-something glam rocker,” Mac says mildly, lighting a cigarette. “They’re just slam dancing, not tear-gassing babies. Punk is dead, Veronica. Hardcore is the future. Bermuda Triangle IS the epitome of that type, which means Logan Echolls sells fanzines. I’m hawking these things to turn a profit for the Anarchist Collective; it’s not artistic expression. Besides, you liked the guy well enough when we shot his crew surfing, last week. As I recall, you tacked his shirtless pictures to your wall.”
Veronica huffs frustration, glances away. The photos were for an issue titled ‘WHAT IF a chair flew ten feet and hit you in the FACE?’ Echolls posed with his board, sporting a shiner, a smirk, scabbed-over knuckles, and ten stitches on his chest; Veronica can’t explain the appeal. It’s because he got hurt rescuing Meg’s tween sister from skinheads, maybe. Or because his aggressive vitality, his blunt honesty, lit an answering spark in her, even as his lack of restraint angered.
(He’s also got a million separate muscles in his abdomen and back. Veronica finds herself mesmerized, sometimes, on the edge of sleep, trying to count each one.)
“Yeah, he’s handsome. A perk of being the DEVIL,” Veronica retorts, choosing bravado. “Look, my hatred’s not personal. Those tribal OC types just enrage me. Our brand of punk, with dyed hair and non-traditional style, is constantly getting harassed; whereas he and his OP-clad friends skate straight under the radar. He seems like every girl’s dreamboat, deceptively, adorably normal…right up until he sneers, and flattens somebody’s nose.”
“It’s an interview, not a date.” Yep, Mac is definitely amused at Veronica’s expense. She lifts the hand with the cigarette, waves at someone Veronica can’t see, and GOD, V can practically FEEL him closing in. She squeezes her eyes shut, grits her teeth.
“Mackenzie,” Logan drawls, from above and behind, quintessentially Californian down to the flat, lazy vowels. “Mars. If you’re thinking you can wish hard enough to make me disappear, I’m warning you now. That only works in fairy tales.”
She turns, finds her face even with his sternum. Tilts it up until her neck cracks, and gets lost in his mocking brown eyes.
He’s tall, rangy but muscular, and sweat mists his pale, freckled flesh. He smells like Dippity Doo, Wild Turkey and musky boy hormones, and this close, she can see the clean-cut styling is a sham. His t-shirt has the words ‘I don’t care about you’ ironed on, grey against the black; the coda ‘fuck you’ is printed neatly across the pocket of his oxford, in fine-line Sharpie. “Wishing you’d disappear implies caring that you’re present,” she says, in an offhand tone. “Which truthfully? I don’t.”
The corner of his mouth crooks; he tucks a thumb in the pocket of his jeans. “Keep telling yourself that,” he says. “It’s bullshit, but I admire your conviction.”
“We want to interview you, Echolls,” Mac says, from a million miles away. “Your drummer and guitar player, too. How about you let us make you guys stars?”
He laughs. “This is for your ‘zine, right? What’s it called, Product of My Environment? I dunno, Mackenzie, I like my peaceful, anonymous existence. As it stands, only the FBI and readers of the American press know all there is to know about me.”
“But have they met the REAL you?” Mac asks, on a plume of smoke. Her arms are crossed before her, cigarette elbow planted in the opposite hand. “Or do they just buy whatever fictional narrative the media’s cooked up?”
He puts a palm to his chest and staggers back, play-acting shock. “Wait, your publication contains TRUTH? In PRINT? Is it written by UNICORNS?”
“Punk girls who aren’t on the scene to meet boys,” Veronica corrects. If he’s not obliging enough to vanish, he won’t ignore her. “Different breed of mythical creature.”
“Why DO you hang around, then?” he asks, zeroing in, his focus total and slightly dizzying. “If I may be so bold? Because you’re both of you five feet tall with bones like birds, and pretty, besides. This is not a crowd that values delicacy.”
“We expose lies,” Veronica says, gritting her teeth. “Me with my camera, Mac with her pen. We aren’t in this to cause mayhem, like you. And we’re smart enough not to make ourselves targets.”
“Sugarpuss, you’ve got huge blue eyes and a breathy voice. You’re a cheerleader playing dress-up, a BORN target. Sharpie-ing the word NO on a clingy red t-shirt will only whet drunk assholes’ appetites.” He glances down at her chest, blatant provocation, and she loses her temper.
“I could have you writhing on the ground in agony in SECONDS,” she says, getting in his face, with the clenched-jaw rage-glare that’s scared off bigger men. “If you want to find out how, talk down to me again.”
His smile’s an adrenaline rush; nasty smirk paired with smitten eyes, face close enough to kiss. “You’re a marshmallow,” he taunts.
She shoves her hand into her bag, closes it around her taser.
“NO!” Mac yells, as she lunges; grabs Veronica’s arm with both hands. The taser arcs in Veronica’s grip, blue crackle of electricity, and she switches it off quickly before she tags her friend. “We don’t electrocute the talent, Veronica, even when they act like dicks! Journalism 101!”
Veronica pants, tossing her bangs out of her eyes, lips peeled back in a snarl. “He has no talent,” she snaps, though she can’t tear her gaze away. “But you’re right about the dick part.”
“Being a dick IS my talent,” Logan says mildly, shoving his hands in his pockets. He seems unperturbed; if anything, his interest in Veronica has intensified. He’s staring openly now, unabashed, and his smirk has turned speculative. “It’s not like our shows sell out because we can PLAY.”
“That’s for sure,” Veronica mutters, and he laughs.
Corny, who’s been re-packing his bowl, chooses this moment to focus. “Whoa, did Veronica just try to electrocute Echolls? Sa-WEET!” He shakes his head, pats himself down for lighters. “Hey you know what you should do tonight? Take him to the Runaways show!”
Veronica picks up a Bic from the table, hands it over. “You know they broke up like two years ago, right? And started solo careers? Maybe you’re confused?”
Corny shakes his head. “No, man, some dude was telling me all about it at the Atomic earlier. One night only, fake name, something about camels? Camel Toe? The tickets were expensiiiiiive….” He whistles. “So I said man, no way, later days to you. But that’s a good angle, you know? For your interview? Seminal new-school boy band’s thoughts on seminal old-school girl’s band? ‘Cause we gotta get the girls back in hardcore! Punk chicks are MEGA hot!”
“I LIKE it,” Mac says. “Interesting angle, and Veronica can’t resist a trail of breadcrumbs. Especially if it leads to Joan Jett, her idol.”
“I’m feeling maneuvered, here,” Veronica protests, glaring at Corny. “You know I hate that. Do you have any clue where this show’s even happening?”
Corny shakes his head, does a hands-up “Don’t blame me!” gesture. Mac says, “Bond. Don’t forget who told you about Lamb and the Miss Gazzari Dancers, doing pay-for-play in the club’s back alley. If you bow out, and I have to take you home, you owe me for gas.”
Veronica turns her glare on Mac, and Corny erupts into giggles.
“I’m in,” Logan interrupts, inviting Veronica’s ire. “I’d never turn down a doomed quest, OR a chance to enlighten the huddled masses. Besides, Princess here needs a bodyguard, if she plans to go bar-hopping. She reminds me of this terrier I had once, that went for Great Danes’ throats.”
“Runaways or bust?” Mac extends a hand, into the center of the circle their bodies make. “Give me Cherry Bomb or give me death?”
Logan lays his palm across hers. “Want me to grab Casey and Darce?” he asks. “Safety in numbers?”
“Yes!” Mac says. “Dick too, if he’s around. Interview with the whole band trumps interview with one member, no offense.”
“Dick’s not welcome,” Veronica interjects. Because Logan Echolls may be the Devil in Disguise, But Dick Casablancas is the Devil She Knows. And she can’t cope with innuendo about the worst night of her life, when her temper’s this frayed. “If you want me along, that’s where I draw the line. His stupid face makes me all kinds of homicidal.”
Logan glances at Veronica, curiosity piqued, but says only, “Fair enough. He went to the Flag show tonight anyway. He never can resist the urge to trash the place, while Louie, Louie plays.”
“Put your hand in, Veronica,” Mac orders, eyebrows arched. “Give your word of honor. A quest requires commitment.”
Veronica sighs, rests her hand atop Logan’s. Her fingers settle between his with a tiny static shock.
“Fine,” she says. “But I’m calling it now. This night will end in disaster.”
Logan lifts her fingers, kisses her knuckles; then spins and skips away, before she can claw him.