“Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage…. Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage…someone will say what is lost can never be saved…Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage… “
All you could see was her boot tapping from beneath the car she was building from scratch, leading up a gray jumpsuit-clad leg , where she ended and old-fashioned RhyDin steel began. It was a labour of love for her, to build this car herself. Kept her sane in the days when business was slow, and helped her focus her thoughts. The Smashing Pumpkins (with Mercer Chase MacLaren on lead vocals) blared from the digital monitor that doubled as a menu of services as she installed the catalytic converter and the muffler in the machine she’d come to know as “Trevor”. (She’d grown tired of the female names given to cars, and she really didn’t like the idea of herself working deep in the bowels of some chick. She had an affinity for guys named Trevor, and so it was named.)
She didn’t miss Long Beach at all. Didn’t miss California, didn’t miss America, didn’t miss Earth. Didn’t miss the 20th or 21st centuries. Liked RhyDin just fine. Didn’t miss her life either… the nights huddled in some cellar or alley, having to hustle, steal and rob to eat, to live. Fending off pimps, dodging cops, being always on the move… no support from her abusive parents, no one to rely on but herself. It resulted in a pessimistic, fatalistic, nihilistic view of the world she was glad to be mostly free of, although it still surfaced from time to time in her interactions with the people here.
And oh, the interactions! Her sharp tongue, while instrumental in getting her this gig with Pslyder (which was weird in itself, the way he just handed over a profitable business to her, while he went off doing… whatever it is Pslyders do when they’re not running bike businesses), led her into all kinds of altercations, whether it was her attempted and thwarted and weirdly successful pursuit of Verceterix Favre (she still didn’t know where that was going), her failed friendship with Sartan (she bitterly hated that that had to end), or her budding fascination with the Wrecking Crew, their drama, and the insanely hot (though she’d never admit it verbally to anyone that he was anything more than “alright”) Ticallion M. Carter. East Coast folks were so intense.
She did miss one thing about her former home, though, and it ached in her late at night, on her way home from the duels, in the shower, when she slid into her bed at the garage. She could see it vividly when she closed her eyes, or rested her hands, as she did now, her foot no longer tapping.
She could still hear the sirens, feel the wind whipping through her hair, the flush of the adrenaline screaming past her ears, driving the 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 350 like its wheels were her feet, its windshield were her eyes, and its roar was coming out of her mouth. She wasn’t good at much, but she was an exquisite wheelman, and if she’d been a painter, this boost would have been her masterpiece. Somebody smart had loved this car, it had been someone’s cherished baby, and under her hands and feet, it flew as if it had no contact with the road. Her mind meld was complete, the minute corrections her hands performed on the steering wheel mirroring the rapid movements her eyes made as she looked for the next turn, the next alley, a strategy to drop the heat behind her.
She picked up her wrench again. She was halfway into installing a dual exhaust system, and she wanted to get finished in time to get some practice in preparation for the Talon of Redwin tournament this weekend.
Chase. Her mother had named her well, because that’s what she lived for. The Shelby obeyed her every thought, and she forgot about everything that was wrong with her life for a while… it was just her and the Shelby… her as the Shelby. Until the kid.
Should have hit the kid, she thought often her first week here in RhyDin. Should have hit him and kept on going, using the mist function to wash the blood from her (eyes) windshield, because at 125 miles per hour, her foot on the gas, her finger on the NOS button, she would have vaporized him. Should have used the momentum to pull away from the cops, who would have been shocked at her audacity. But instead, she pulled the hand brake and went into a spin skid to avoid him, aimed at pulling a U-turn, but instead rolling fiercely to and through a guardrail, down a cliff, and into the Pacific. She was thrown god knows how far from the Shelby, her impact in the water like hitting concrete, enough to knock her out—or kill her, as she sometimes believed.
She woke up on a bed in a room, still clutching the key to the Shelby, feeling like she’d been broken in half and taped back together. Someone had brought soup and food for her, but it had long since gone bad, indicating how long it was since someone had tried to tend to her. She still had nightmares about the fall, blue ocean on one side, blue sky on the other, being violently forced out of life and ending up here with a backache to end all backaches and some moldy food. Hell should be hotter, she thought, as she tried to slide off the bed and towards the door. Heaven didn’t cross her mind, and ran further from it as she stepped out of the door and onto the mezzanine over the Red Dragon Inn.
She didn’t know where she was, but she didn’t have the money to pay for her room, and free lodging was easier had in basements, so she made her way for the back stairs, and the eventual meeting with Pslyder, the man who changed her life. Chasey Lain, (as her crew called her for her physical likeness and name similarity to a popular porn star) thanks to Pslyder, was now legit. Snap, Ryder, Goose, Lyle and Nina would never believe it unless they saw it, workaholic Chase not stealing, not robbing, not boosting.
She slid out from under Trevor’s back end, finally finished with the exhaust system, making plans to test it out a little later, after she came back from the duels. Her hands were filthy, and that bothered her in that oddly obsessive-compulsive way she had about her hands. Once she saw that they were dirty, she couldn’t do anything but wash them. She wiped the excess off on her jumpsuit, and disappeared into the bathroom, whistling Smashing Pumpkins.
Cut To The Chase
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Chase MacLaren
- Junior Adventurer
- Posts: 13
- Joined: Tue May 25, 2004 6:45 am
- Location: Elven Garage West, Downtown RhyDin
-
Chase MacLaren
- Junior Adventurer
- Posts: 13
- Joined: Tue May 25, 2004 6:45 am
- Location: Elven Garage West, Downtown RhyDin
The Morning After...
Chase is an early bird. She rarely slept for more than five hours a night, and when she did, it was never the kind of sleep that Verceterix Gavin Favre was enjoying right now. Even with the relaxation that RhyDin gave her, she always slept with one eye open and one ear listening, just waiting for that time when she would have to run as if everything depended upon it, because so often it did.
But not this time. It was only the sound of Rix’s soft snoring she had to listen for, his sandy blonde hair askew on the pillow all she needed to keep an eye on. He was beautiful when he slept, all boyish innocence and quiet serenity… her presence here in his bedroom the only indication that anything of significance had happened to her in the last 24 hours.
She’d won the Talon of Redwin Tournament, much to her surprise. She fully expected to choke in that last duel with the minstrel Soerl Lute and be forced to acknowledge his superior skill instead of the other way around, but fate didn’t have it that way, and for that she was glad. She glanced at the case on the nightstand next to her, the faint light from the window shining down on the ornate carving on its lid. She would have to read up on Siera Redwin, the woman whom the Talon and the Tournament honored—she was ashamed to say that she knew nothing of the great woman. She assumed PJ Ramirez, the first Talon of Redwin, knew all there was to know, but Chase decided to let go of her bitterness towards the other woman now… after all, didn’t Chase now have both her Talon and her Rix?
She didn’t like herself for thinking about it that way, but there was a bit of delicious irony in there, wasn’t it? Chase had been so angry at PJ for her waffling ways, always desiring the men that Chase desired, so aggressive at capturing every available bit of spotlight, leaving the more reticent in the dark. And now, the tables were turned.
Chase didn’t know the state of the relationship between Rix and PJ now, and barely cared. It was strange the other night, when Chase and Rix had that Talk—that led to that Kiss, that led, indirectly, to Last Night. What did he mean, he wasn’t in love? What did he mean, he wasn’t in a relationship with her? What on earth did he mean, he still wanted Chase? How could all of that happen, and the next day, he went back to his perch with Sartan, Rory and Nova, talking about his relationship with her?
She looked him over, the sky blue eyes taking in his thick, stocky shirtless form beneath the sheets. She was a sucker for these corn-fed country boy types, and she had to admit, she wanted Rix so badly because he reminded her of that torrid self-destructive love affair she’d had with Ryder in a time and a place that seemed far away from her now. He was just like Ryder, she marveled, down to the wide-eyed way he looked at her. She imagined that if she got into him the way she was into Ryder, he would hurt her the same way Ryder did, and that kind of vulnerability was something she planned to leave way behind her. The contradiction in his behavior was just enough to let her know that if she were to commit at all (which seemed more and more like an improbability), it wouldn’t be to him anytime soon.
She hated to leave, that was for sure. Their encounter last night was the cherry on the top of the hot fudge sundae that was winning the Talon and gaining the congratulations of all the people she’d seen around. Even Xenograg and Athlstan, whom she understood to be Big Fraggin’ Deals around RhyDin, took a moment to congratulate her. The newly crowned Overlord, Cory Havoick, came by personally to say well done, which easily had to be the most tantalizing thing to happen to her since coming to RhyDin. But, she felt she had to, if only to send a message to Rix that:
a) no, he did not have a hold on her,
b) no, he’d have to put in a whole lot more work to get said hold, and
c) yes, the sex was (very) good, but not good enough to make her obsessed with him after the first night.
So, she wrote the note and left the note, on the pillow where he would expect her head to be when he awoke, thanking him for a wonderful night and telling some slightly cracked story about how she had a rush order to work on at the garage and couldn’t possibly stay for breakfast, although she would have loved to (right). She leaned over and retrieved the Talon, planting a very soft kiss on his forehead and touching the sandy blonde hair one last time before turning to leave, tiptoeing out of his place and waiting until she’d coasted a good distance away before gunning the engine and roaring back to the garage. She’d probably put a notch on one of Trevor’s exhaust pipes to commemorate the occasion, she thought, grinning as she headed home.
But not this time. It was only the sound of Rix’s soft snoring she had to listen for, his sandy blonde hair askew on the pillow all she needed to keep an eye on. He was beautiful when he slept, all boyish innocence and quiet serenity… her presence here in his bedroom the only indication that anything of significance had happened to her in the last 24 hours.
She’d won the Talon of Redwin Tournament, much to her surprise. She fully expected to choke in that last duel with the minstrel Soerl Lute and be forced to acknowledge his superior skill instead of the other way around, but fate didn’t have it that way, and for that she was glad. She glanced at the case on the nightstand next to her, the faint light from the window shining down on the ornate carving on its lid. She would have to read up on Siera Redwin, the woman whom the Talon and the Tournament honored—she was ashamed to say that she knew nothing of the great woman. She assumed PJ Ramirez, the first Talon of Redwin, knew all there was to know, but Chase decided to let go of her bitterness towards the other woman now… after all, didn’t Chase now have both her Talon and her Rix?
She didn’t like herself for thinking about it that way, but there was a bit of delicious irony in there, wasn’t it? Chase had been so angry at PJ for her waffling ways, always desiring the men that Chase desired, so aggressive at capturing every available bit of spotlight, leaving the more reticent in the dark. And now, the tables were turned.
Chase didn’t know the state of the relationship between Rix and PJ now, and barely cared. It was strange the other night, when Chase and Rix had that Talk—that led to that Kiss, that led, indirectly, to Last Night. What did he mean, he wasn’t in love? What did he mean, he wasn’t in a relationship with her? What on earth did he mean, he still wanted Chase? How could all of that happen, and the next day, he went back to his perch with Sartan, Rory and Nova, talking about his relationship with her?
She looked him over, the sky blue eyes taking in his thick, stocky shirtless form beneath the sheets. She was a sucker for these corn-fed country boy types, and she had to admit, she wanted Rix so badly because he reminded her of that torrid self-destructive love affair she’d had with Ryder in a time and a place that seemed far away from her now. He was just like Ryder, she marveled, down to the wide-eyed way he looked at her. She imagined that if she got into him the way she was into Ryder, he would hurt her the same way Ryder did, and that kind of vulnerability was something she planned to leave way behind her. The contradiction in his behavior was just enough to let her know that if she were to commit at all (which seemed more and more like an improbability), it wouldn’t be to him anytime soon.
She hated to leave, that was for sure. Their encounter last night was the cherry on the top of the hot fudge sundae that was winning the Talon and gaining the congratulations of all the people she’d seen around. Even Xenograg and Athlstan, whom she understood to be Big Fraggin’ Deals around RhyDin, took a moment to congratulate her. The newly crowned Overlord, Cory Havoick, came by personally to say well done, which easily had to be the most tantalizing thing to happen to her since coming to RhyDin. But, she felt she had to, if only to send a message to Rix that:
a) no, he did not have a hold on her,
b) no, he’d have to put in a whole lot more work to get said hold, and
c) yes, the sex was (very) good, but not good enough to make her obsessed with him after the first night.
So, she wrote the note and left the note, on the pillow where he would expect her head to be when he awoke, thanking him for a wonderful night and telling some slightly cracked story about how she had a rush order to work on at the garage and couldn’t possibly stay for breakfast, although she would have loved to (right). She leaned over and retrieved the Talon, planting a very soft kiss on his forehead and touching the sandy blonde hair one last time before turning to leave, tiptoeing out of his place and waiting until she’d coasted a good distance away before gunning the engine and roaring back to the garage. She’d probably put a notch on one of Trevor’s exhaust pipes to commemorate the occasion, she thought, grinning as she headed home.
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Chase MacLaren
- Junior Adventurer
- Posts: 13
- Joined: Tue May 25, 2004 6:45 am
- Location: Elven Garage West, Downtown RhyDin
So many men, so little time...
Chase didn’t think she could care about anyone more than she cared about Pslyder. She never believed she was capable of caring about someone more than she cared about herself. It scared and fascinated her, the pain she felt when she saw his wounds from the binding ceremony. She’d never felt that terrifying pang of fear for anyone the way she felt it when she thought that Pslyder might die.
Even now, under Trevor’s back end once more, adjusting the catalytic converter again (her tests had failed, she hadn’t specified a setting accurately enough), she worried about him, had to restrain herself from keeping vigil at his branch of the Elven Garage, had to keep herself from running to hug him when she saw him in the Arena. She wasn’t sure if it was the kind of love that she had for Ryder long ago—she still wasn’t turned on by the prospect of the machinery beneath his skin—but it was still strong, like a sister’s love for her big brother, or a woman’s love for her very best friend.
He wasn’t aware of the way he’d changed her life. He didn’t know much about her at all, she realized—had just trusted that she was good people, and helped her out. He never required her to give up anything or do anything she didn’t want to do. He was a flirt, but one would expect that of someone who had a “Man Ho” tattoo on his back. He’d been a perfect gentleman to her, and she admired and loved that about him. She figured that it was fine that he was in the dark about how much he meant to her—gave her a buffer, if in case he revealed himself to be the type to take advantage of that fact.
He was sexy, though, the connoisseur in her couldn’t deny. The electric blue eyes, the long black hair, the tanned skin, the exquisitely muscled frame—Pslyder was 100% beef, and Chase would be lying to herself if she said that she wasn’t curious, wasn’t tempted. She’d never experienced it with him… was just held back by visions of kissing his neck and tasting cold titanium instead of warm skin.
She wanted to ask his advice—so much had happened since she won the Talon of Redwin. She’d rekindled her friendship with Sartan, become a little more into Rix Favre than she intended, and was a nervous wreck over her budding friendship with Ticallion Carter. (Definitely hotter up close. Definitely. ) Maria Graziano had just mentioned that she wanted Chase to consider joining the Wrecking Crew, and Chase now had a full-blown crush on the Overlord, Cory Havoick.
Chase had had the best week ever. Except for the fact that everyone knew she’d gotten laid after the ToR (but not by who they thought, which was almost always Tical), she was pretty much spotless, the only indication that there was a rise in her station in life the tabloid pictures of her and Tical walking together, or of her leaving Rix’s house that morning (if she ever got a hold of that photographer, she would gleefully strangle him. Slowly.)
She and Sar were like two peas in a pod, and Rix was preoccupied with babysitting PJ now that she’d returned, so Chase was free to turn her thoughts full-time to Ticallion and Cory. Ah, Tical and Cory. Cory and Tical. Tical, she knew she had a shot with, sorta. Cory was a stretch goal, to say the least. Rumor had it that his wife had returned after some mysterious disappearance a few years ago, and that his mistress, whom he’d postponed the Overlord Challenge against Kaja Adair for, had been missing since the night of the binding ceremony. If he even took her seriously at all, which was debatable, she was at least third in line for his bed, let alone his heart. Nope, better to continue to leer at Cory from afar.
Tical was something different all together. Tical, who had the obstacle of being the jilted fiancée of the one and only Kaja Adair. How could Chase follow her? She was…. perfect. But, Tical didn’t seem to mind Chase’s foibles ( she was particularly conscious of her paleness when she was with him—she wondered if Kaja would allow her to get that taken care of at Pier 24), and she liked his quiet company.
He’d asked if she ever sold a bike that represented her. Made one, yes, she answered, but she’d never sold one. No one ever asked for that kind of thing. They always had an idea of what they wanted, and Chase was just the hands that made such fantasies realities. She didn’t really know what Tical was getting at with the question, other than a way to make her squirm. And, because he’d been away for a little while, she wasn’t able to get that question answered. No worries, though, no worries at all. Ms. MacLaren was footloose and fancy free.
She slid out from under Trevor’s back end, stretching a bit before going to wash her hands. She looked at the monitor for the surveillance camera watching the shop door, seeing what she’d come to think of as the Goth-guys (black boots, black shirts, black trenchcoats), and immediately, a grin crossed her lips, and two words came to mind: Jonothon Shaw.
Fascinating bird, this Jono. Dresses like a Goth-guy, talks like a Goth-guy, acts like a Goth-guy, but melts in all apologies when asked if he is a Goth-guy. She pulled her handkerchief from her back pocket and began to clean her nails absently, her eyes taking on a faraway look as her thoughts drifted. Mercenary, perhaps. There’s a lot of guilty mercenaries hanging around RhyDin, she knew, and Jono could be one—he had enough pain in those…big…brown…gorgeous…eyes... how would he feel about…
Bah. Never mind. Go duel. She’d catch up with Psly later.
Even now, under Trevor’s back end once more, adjusting the catalytic converter again (her tests had failed, she hadn’t specified a setting accurately enough), she worried about him, had to restrain herself from keeping vigil at his branch of the Elven Garage, had to keep herself from running to hug him when she saw him in the Arena. She wasn’t sure if it was the kind of love that she had for Ryder long ago—she still wasn’t turned on by the prospect of the machinery beneath his skin—but it was still strong, like a sister’s love for her big brother, or a woman’s love for her very best friend.
He wasn’t aware of the way he’d changed her life. He didn’t know much about her at all, she realized—had just trusted that she was good people, and helped her out. He never required her to give up anything or do anything she didn’t want to do. He was a flirt, but one would expect that of someone who had a “Man Ho” tattoo on his back. He’d been a perfect gentleman to her, and she admired and loved that about him. She figured that it was fine that he was in the dark about how much he meant to her—gave her a buffer, if in case he revealed himself to be the type to take advantage of that fact.
He was sexy, though, the connoisseur in her couldn’t deny. The electric blue eyes, the long black hair, the tanned skin, the exquisitely muscled frame—Pslyder was 100% beef, and Chase would be lying to herself if she said that she wasn’t curious, wasn’t tempted. She’d never experienced it with him… was just held back by visions of kissing his neck and tasting cold titanium instead of warm skin.
She wanted to ask his advice—so much had happened since she won the Talon of Redwin. She’d rekindled her friendship with Sartan, become a little more into Rix Favre than she intended, and was a nervous wreck over her budding friendship with Ticallion Carter. (Definitely hotter up close. Definitely. ) Maria Graziano had just mentioned that she wanted Chase to consider joining the Wrecking Crew, and Chase now had a full-blown crush on the Overlord, Cory Havoick.
Chase had had the best week ever. Except for the fact that everyone knew she’d gotten laid after the ToR (but not by who they thought, which was almost always Tical), she was pretty much spotless, the only indication that there was a rise in her station in life the tabloid pictures of her and Tical walking together, or of her leaving Rix’s house that morning (if she ever got a hold of that photographer, she would gleefully strangle him. Slowly.)
She and Sar were like two peas in a pod, and Rix was preoccupied with babysitting PJ now that she’d returned, so Chase was free to turn her thoughts full-time to Ticallion and Cory. Ah, Tical and Cory. Cory and Tical. Tical, she knew she had a shot with, sorta. Cory was a stretch goal, to say the least. Rumor had it that his wife had returned after some mysterious disappearance a few years ago, and that his mistress, whom he’d postponed the Overlord Challenge against Kaja Adair for, had been missing since the night of the binding ceremony. If he even took her seriously at all, which was debatable, she was at least third in line for his bed, let alone his heart. Nope, better to continue to leer at Cory from afar.
Tical was something different all together. Tical, who had the obstacle of being the jilted fiancée of the one and only Kaja Adair. How could Chase follow her? She was…. perfect. But, Tical didn’t seem to mind Chase’s foibles ( she was particularly conscious of her paleness when she was with him—she wondered if Kaja would allow her to get that taken care of at Pier 24), and she liked his quiet company.
He’d asked if she ever sold a bike that represented her. Made one, yes, she answered, but she’d never sold one. No one ever asked for that kind of thing. They always had an idea of what they wanted, and Chase was just the hands that made such fantasies realities. She didn’t really know what Tical was getting at with the question, other than a way to make her squirm. And, because he’d been away for a little while, she wasn’t able to get that question answered. No worries, though, no worries at all. Ms. MacLaren was footloose and fancy free.
She slid out from under Trevor’s back end, stretching a bit before going to wash her hands. She looked at the monitor for the surveillance camera watching the shop door, seeing what she’d come to think of as the Goth-guys (black boots, black shirts, black trenchcoats), and immediately, a grin crossed her lips, and two words came to mind: Jonothon Shaw.
Fascinating bird, this Jono. Dresses like a Goth-guy, talks like a Goth-guy, acts like a Goth-guy, but melts in all apologies when asked if he is a Goth-guy. She pulled her handkerchief from her back pocket and began to clean her nails absently, her eyes taking on a faraway look as her thoughts drifted. Mercenary, perhaps. There’s a lot of guilty mercenaries hanging around RhyDin, she knew, and Jono could be one—he had enough pain in those…big…brown…gorgeous…eyes... how would he feel about…
Bah. Never mind. Go duel. She’d catch up with Psly later.
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Chase MacLaren
- Junior Adventurer
- Posts: 13
- Joined: Tue May 25, 2004 6:45 am
- Location: Elven Garage West, Downtown RhyDin
It was only a dream...
It was dark. Completely dark, as if light never dreamed of coming to this place. She couldn’t say that she was afraid, though everything about the situation told her that she should. She was actually rather comfortable—dozing in the grass, hearing birds chirp in the distance. She recognized the scent of the woods, heard the leaves rustle with the breeze that moved over her body. She felt so peaceful, so happy, so content, and she didn’t know what to do with herself, except to lay here and wish it would never stop.
She closed her eyes, concentrating on every sense other than her sight, which wouldn’t help her even if her eyes were open. She tried to touch everything around her with her mind, but it only succeeded in further relaxing her, her breathing slowing as she drifted into sleep. And that’s when she felt him.
Slightly roughened hands guided themselves up legs she didn’t know was bare until their arrival. It was more caress than touch, the calluses signaling a man who was well acquainted with manual labor, yet hadn’t forgotten how to make a woman moan the way Chase did before she could stop herself. She didn’t move because she didn’t want to, imagining that she was pinned to where she was by invisible rope. The wind blew against her shirt, making her painfully aware of the hands, which were content to grasp her legs and caress her thighs. They moved slowly up to rub her arms, then one, his left, she thought, moved beneath her, bringing her up to the kiss that pierced her very being, her lips crushed against his, the other hand caressing her face, her neck, running through her hair as she reached out for him, her passion growing as she pressed up against him, ran her own hands through his hair. There was only one thought on her mind, one name, and she whispered her answer to him… yes, Jono…
She woke up in a pool of sweat, her chest heaving wildly and her lips parted as she tried to catch her breath.
“So… real… God…” She moved to get out of bed and nearly stumbled, her legs weak from… whatever that was. She could only call it a dream, but it seemed like so much more. It seemed like he was in her head, like he’d possessed her for a short while… like he’d really been there. Her eyes were still wild looking, her hair disheveled, and her skin flushed, but at least her breathing was coming under control.
Jono. He’d completely invaded her thoughts lately. She’d been so distracted, getting memory flashes of the way his hair fell over the front of his face, how the air crackled about him with that quiet intensity of his—his face in her mind caused her to take orders down wrong, get her butt kicked in the ring, even drop her instruments when she was working on Trevor. This was serious. No man made her not want to work. This one she would have to watch closely, she thought, heading towards the shower.
She closed her eyes, concentrating on every sense other than her sight, which wouldn’t help her even if her eyes were open. She tried to touch everything around her with her mind, but it only succeeded in further relaxing her, her breathing slowing as she drifted into sleep. And that’s when she felt him.
Slightly roughened hands guided themselves up legs she didn’t know was bare until their arrival. It was more caress than touch, the calluses signaling a man who was well acquainted with manual labor, yet hadn’t forgotten how to make a woman moan the way Chase did before she could stop herself. She didn’t move because she didn’t want to, imagining that she was pinned to where she was by invisible rope. The wind blew against her shirt, making her painfully aware of the hands, which were content to grasp her legs and caress her thighs. They moved slowly up to rub her arms, then one, his left, she thought, moved beneath her, bringing her up to the kiss that pierced her very being, her lips crushed against his, the other hand caressing her face, her neck, running through her hair as she reached out for him, her passion growing as she pressed up against him, ran her own hands through his hair. There was only one thought on her mind, one name, and she whispered her answer to him… yes, Jono…
She woke up in a pool of sweat, her chest heaving wildly and her lips parted as she tried to catch her breath.
“So… real… God…” She moved to get out of bed and nearly stumbled, her legs weak from… whatever that was. She could only call it a dream, but it seemed like so much more. It seemed like he was in her head, like he’d possessed her for a short while… like he’d really been there. Her eyes were still wild looking, her hair disheveled, and her skin flushed, but at least her breathing was coming under control.
Jono. He’d completely invaded her thoughts lately. She’d been so distracted, getting memory flashes of the way his hair fell over the front of his face, how the air crackled about him with that quiet intensity of his—his face in her mind caused her to take orders down wrong, get her butt kicked in the ring, even drop her instruments when she was working on Trevor. This was serious. No man made her not want to work. This one she would have to watch closely, she thought, heading towards the shower.
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Chase MacLaren
- Junior Adventurer
- Posts: 13
- Joined: Tue May 25, 2004 6:45 am
- Location: Elven Garage West, Downtown RhyDin
The game has changed...
The sunlight coming through the wall of windows on the east side of Chase’s apartment shone dully behind the dark grey shades, casting a twilight-like shadow across the loft. She loved waking up like this, the gentle brightening of the loft much more pleasant than an alarm clock or direct sunshine. On this particular morning, however, there was more for her to love about waking up, in the form of Jonothon Shaw’s broad back and unruly dark hair. She couldn’t believe her luck that he would still be here, after the passion they shared the night before. She was sure that he would be long gone, his message clear that she had no grasp upon him. But here he was, his breathing completely silent, the only indication that he was still alive the slight rise and fall of his chest as he slept.
Normally she would be hustling him up and out right this moment, giving him cab fare and telling him that she would call him later (which she wouldn’t), but not this time. There was something special to her about last night—he himself was special to her in some way, and she didn’t want him to go. Not for a long time.
She got up reluctantly, sliding on his t-shirt and a pair of her own shorts. She prepared some oolong tea for the both of them that she picked up from a local merchant and sipped it meditatively from her perch on a nearby window ledge, watching him sleep. She glanced at the bullet scars on his back, imagining his life from what he’d already told her. No wonder he was so quiet and pensive. She couldn’t imagine carrying around the memories he no doubt had to carry, the knowledge of all the things he’d had to do in the name of honor and duty. All the things he had to do now just to survive. She was struck by the sudden urge to hold him tightly, and she chuckled into her cup. God, Chase, she thought. You are going soft.
The pleasantness of that train of thought was immediately derailed by her next one. Her mind drifted to her duel a few nights ago with Max Blue, and the question that had ruined her night until Jono’s arrival, and hadn’t quite left her, despite the angry beating she’d administered to the Baron. She could still see Max’s sneer as he said it: “So, do Tic, Jono, and Rix know about each other? Or are you planning to tell them together?” Bastard. She wished she was still in the ring with him to slash him up even more, her anger was so intense.
She was only pissed at him because he was telling the truth. If she included the one date with Panther and the secret crush on Cory, she had a bigger problem than even Max knew about. She’d been very careful not to be drawn into a relationship with any of the men she’d befriended since she’d been in RhyDin, but she knew that it didn’t matter. She excused it repeatedly by telling herself that Rix was back with PJ and that Tical wasn’t really interested in anything serious right now, but Jono—she liked Jono. More than that, she wanted Jono. Immensely. A new thing for Chase, whose infatuations usually lasted only as long as the time it took to get the object into the position Jono was in right now. No longer a fantasy, thoroughly explored by her personally, a puzzle she’s already solved, a book she’s already read. No longer a mystery. Sometimes, she’d already be bored with them, and the unceremonious ejection from her bed—the one she’d forgone this morning—would be a done deal before the sun came up.
So why not this time? Why was Jono still here? Because she got the distinct feeling that he let her win. That this was too easy, that if she let him go now, she wouldn’t have even scratched the surface on what made him what he was. That she would never know why she got that sense of déjà vu loud and clear when he touched her. She wanted to explore him like she was Jacques Cousteau and he was the Mariana Trench. She wanted to know him like she knew the cooling system for a 1959 Chevy Corvair, like he knew how to kill.
How to kill. A killer. For hire. Hit man, mercenary, hired gun. It wasn’t that really that gave her pause. She’d killed before, and death, either hers or someone else’s, had lost its shock value to her long ago. But this was different. She was different. The reason why she didn’t want to go back to Earth was because in RhyDin she was a different person, here she was legitimate, here she was real. She wasn’t Chasey Lain anymore, she was M. Chase MacLaren, proprietor of the Elven Garage West. More than anything, she didn’t want to go back to that life, and she would do anything not to return. What could they do? What would happen? One night, he’d be called away while they were together . Another night, someone would find her and try to kill her to get to him. Yet another night, he might not come home at all. That alone was enough for her to say goodbye to Jono and move on.
But could she? There was something here. Jono might be the one. It was too early for her to feel this deeply for someone. It had never happened before, and she was afraid it would never happen again. And, she got the feeling that if he had the opportunity to go legit, he would in a heartbeat. She’d been where he was now, and she would still be there if it wasn’t for Pslyder. Could she be that savior for him? Would he let her?
Normally she would be hustling him up and out right this moment, giving him cab fare and telling him that she would call him later (which she wouldn’t), but not this time. There was something special to her about last night—he himself was special to her in some way, and she didn’t want him to go. Not for a long time.
She got up reluctantly, sliding on his t-shirt and a pair of her own shorts. She prepared some oolong tea for the both of them that she picked up from a local merchant and sipped it meditatively from her perch on a nearby window ledge, watching him sleep. She glanced at the bullet scars on his back, imagining his life from what he’d already told her. No wonder he was so quiet and pensive. She couldn’t imagine carrying around the memories he no doubt had to carry, the knowledge of all the things he’d had to do in the name of honor and duty. All the things he had to do now just to survive. She was struck by the sudden urge to hold him tightly, and she chuckled into her cup. God, Chase, she thought. You are going soft.
The pleasantness of that train of thought was immediately derailed by her next one. Her mind drifted to her duel a few nights ago with Max Blue, and the question that had ruined her night until Jono’s arrival, and hadn’t quite left her, despite the angry beating she’d administered to the Baron. She could still see Max’s sneer as he said it: “So, do Tic, Jono, and Rix know about each other? Or are you planning to tell them together?” Bastard. She wished she was still in the ring with him to slash him up even more, her anger was so intense.
She was only pissed at him because he was telling the truth. If she included the one date with Panther and the secret crush on Cory, she had a bigger problem than even Max knew about. She’d been very careful not to be drawn into a relationship with any of the men she’d befriended since she’d been in RhyDin, but she knew that it didn’t matter. She excused it repeatedly by telling herself that Rix was back with PJ and that Tical wasn’t really interested in anything serious right now, but Jono—she liked Jono. More than that, she wanted Jono. Immensely. A new thing for Chase, whose infatuations usually lasted only as long as the time it took to get the object into the position Jono was in right now. No longer a fantasy, thoroughly explored by her personally, a puzzle she’s already solved, a book she’s already read. No longer a mystery. Sometimes, she’d already be bored with them, and the unceremonious ejection from her bed—the one she’d forgone this morning—would be a done deal before the sun came up.
So why not this time? Why was Jono still here? Because she got the distinct feeling that he let her win. That this was too easy, that if she let him go now, she wouldn’t have even scratched the surface on what made him what he was. That she would never know why she got that sense of déjà vu loud and clear when he touched her. She wanted to explore him like she was Jacques Cousteau and he was the Mariana Trench. She wanted to know him like she knew the cooling system for a 1959 Chevy Corvair, like he knew how to kill.
How to kill. A killer. For hire. Hit man, mercenary, hired gun. It wasn’t that really that gave her pause. She’d killed before, and death, either hers or someone else’s, had lost its shock value to her long ago. But this was different. She was different. The reason why she didn’t want to go back to Earth was because in RhyDin she was a different person, here she was legitimate, here she was real. She wasn’t Chasey Lain anymore, she was M. Chase MacLaren, proprietor of the Elven Garage West. More than anything, she didn’t want to go back to that life, and she would do anything not to return. What could they do? What would happen? One night, he’d be called away while they were together . Another night, someone would find her and try to kill her to get to him. Yet another night, he might not come home at all. That alone was enough for her to say goodbye to Jono and move on.
But could she? There was something here. Jono might be the one. It was too early for her to feel this deeply for someone. It had never happened before, and she was afraid it would never happen again. And, she got the feeling that if he had the opportunity to go legit, he would in a heartbeat. She’d been where he was now, and she would still be there if it wasn’t for Pslyder. Could she be that savior for him? Would he let her?
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Chase MacLaren
- Junior Adventurer
- Posts: 13
- Joined: Tue May 25, 2004 6:45 am
- Location: Elven Garage West, Downtown RhyDin
Finding Psly...
The Starlight Foundation. Founded by Vincent Smith to help clean up the streets of Badside, the patrols that issue from the mid-sized building seem to need no sleep, no food, and no rest. But for the moment, that seemed rather unimportant to two individuals. One was actually inside the building, deep in the basement levels, floating in a regenerative bath.
The other was lost. She hated hospitals, and although this building wasn’t one, it felt enough like one to make the hairs raise on her neck and arms. The cryptic note that the Scotsman left her in the Outback only indicated that Psly was waiting for her somewhere—apparently he was well enough to be able to wait on her, but not well enough to see her under his own power.
She suddenly, fiercely wished that Jono were here with her, to hold her hand through this. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to see Psly the way she imagined he was. But, she’d been in this position before, recovering from multiple broken bones after a bike ride gone awry long ago, no one to see about her, to look after her. All trepidation aside, she wasn’t going to allow Pslyder, to whom she owed so much, to suffer the same fate. She tugged her jacket closer around herself, and kept walking.
People milled about her busily, some in lab coats, some in business suits, some in uniforms she’d never been and would never be familiar with. There were what appeared to be classrooms, laboratories, dormitories, libraries. Physical training centers, think tanks. She reached in her pocket once more for the paper left her by Moyrlochlon, and bit a lip. Basement. Oh, this is getting better and better.
She passed a laboratory, her gaze meeting that of a scientist clad in a white coat and face mask. His brown eyes widened as she passed, and she almost reached for her switchblade when he barreled out of the lab door, out of breath.
“Ms. MacLaren?” he asked doubtfully. She kept walking, hoping that he would leave her alone, but she didn’t know why. This whole scenario reminded her of some movie back on Earth. You know... the one with the zombies and the skinned dogs.
“Ms. MacLaren! Chase!” A hand on her shoulder, and she had to stop. She turned around, looking at him.
“Yeah?” she asked just as doubtfully, as completely confused as she was afraid, stepping back from him. “What?”
“You are Chase MacLaren? I thought I recognized you from the Talon Tournament, but my, you are…”
“Cut the crap, dude. What do you want?”
“I’m sorry. I assume you’re here to see Mr. Alexander.”
“Um… yeah. I’m… I’m kinda lost.” She scratched her head nervously, her unease turning into irritation with every second he stared at her with those baby-wide brown eyes. “Look, can you take me to him?”
“Yes, right away.” He stepped out in front of her, walking at a pace so brisk that she had to almost trot to keep up, her strides much shorter than his as a result of the nearly 6 inch height advantage he had on her. He didn’t look back to her once, only talking about his fascination with sport dueling and how he likened it to his work with his gene replication theories. His voice faded into a blur as fleeting as the sights around her as she struggled to keep up with him. How would she ever find her way out of this place?
He stopped before a pair of steel doors at the end of the incline ramp it seemed they’d been on forever, and turned to her.
“Here is where I stop. They’re—he’s—expecting you. Just place your right hand on that panel over there—he indicated the biometric identification panel near the doors—and walk in.”
“Um… hey, thanks. If you want an autograph or some...” She trailed off as she realized he was gone. Shrugging, she turned to the door and placed her hand on the panel as he directed, her eyes adjusting to the light as the doors opened slowly. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw Pslyder for the first time since that tragic night in the Outback, and she bit her lip until it bled to bite back the scream that threatened.
The other was lost. She hated hospitals, and although this building wasn’t one, it felt enough like one to make the hairs raise on her neck and arms. The cryptic note that the Scotsman left her in the Outback only indicated that Psly was waiting for her somewhere—apparently he was well enough to be able to wait on her, but not well enough to see her under his own power.
She suddenly, fiercely wished that Jono were here with her, to hold her hand through this. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to see Psly the way she imagined he was. But, she’d been in this position before, recovering from multiple broken bones after a bike ride gone awry long ago, no one to see about her, to look after her. All trepidation aside, she wasn’t going to allow Pslyder, to whom she owed so much, to suffer the same fate. She tugged her jacket closer around herself, and kept walking.
People milled about her busily, some in lab coats, some in business suits, some in uniforms she’d never been and would never be familiar with. There were what appeared to be classrooms, laboratories, dormitories, libraries. Physical training centers, think tanks. She reached in her pocket once more for the paper left her by Moyrlochlon, and bit a lip. Basement. Oh, this is getting better and better.
She passed a laboratory, her gaze meeting that of a scientist clad in a white coat and face mask. His brown eyes widened as she passed, and she almost reached for her switchblade when he barreled out of the lab door, out of breath.
“Ms. MacLaren?” he asked doubtfully. She kept walking, hoping that he would leave her alone, but she didn’t know why. This whole scenario reminded her of some movie back on Earth. You know... the one with the zombies and the skinned dogs.
“Ms. MacLaren! Chase!” A hand on her shoulder, and she had to stop. She turned around, looking at him.
“Yeah?” she asked just as doubtfully, as completely confused as she was afraid, stepping back from him. “What?”
“You are Chase MacLaren? I thought I recognized you from the Talon Tournament, but my, you are…”
“Cut the crap, dude. What do you want?”
“I’m sorry. I assume you’re here to see Mr. Alexander.”
“Um… yeah. I’m… I’m kinda lost.” She scratched her head nervously, her unease turning into irritation with every second he stared at her with those baby-wide brown eyes. “Look, can you take me to him?”
“Yes, right away.” He stepped out in front of her, walking at a pace so brisk that she had to almost trot to keep up, her strides much shorter than his as a result of the nearly 6 inch height advantage he had on her. He didn’t look back to her once, only talking about his fascination with sport dueling and how he likened it to his work with his gene replication theories. His voice faded into a blur as fleeting as the sights around her as she struggled to keep up with him. How would she ever find her way out of this place?
He stopped before a pair of steel doors at the end of the incline ramp it seemed they’d been on forever, and turned to her.
“Here is where I stop. They’re—he’s—expecting you. Just place your right hand on that panel over there—he indicated the biometric identification panel near the doors—and walk in.”
“Um… hey, thanks. If you want an autograph or some...” She trailed off as she realized he was gone. Shrugging, she turned to the door and placed her hand on the panel as he directed, her eyes adjusting to the light as the doors opened slowly. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw Pslyder for the first time since that tragic night in the Outback, and she bit her lip until it bled to bite back the scream that threatened.
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Chase MacLaren
- Junior Adventurer
- Posts: 13
- Joined: Tue May 25, 2004 6:45 am
- Location: Elven Garage West, Downtown RhyDin
Understanding...
She took a tentative step into the room, her eyes darting side to side like they usually did when she was in an unfamiliar place. Her gaze kept returning to the tank, which appeared to be lit from below with a calming blue light. She could see him there, could recognize his frame anywhere, although it was hard to tell with the abundance of wires and machines attached to him.
It all looked so fraggin’ foreign to her as she struggled to understand. What had happened to him that night? Wasn’t he the Terminator? How could this have happened?
Chase walked slowly towards the tank, finally taking notice of two flat screen monitors that seemed to come as close as any to displaying what had happened to Pslyder and what was happening in the tank. It appeared to be filled with a viscous liquid, and she couldn’t even be sure that it was Psly by sight, for his electric blue eyes (as they had always been for her) were shrouded in a visor that reminded her of Geordi Laforge on Star Trek back home. His arms were covered by big sleeves, and colors flashed below the fabric—red, green, blue. On the skin that was exposed, the bruises from the last fight he had in the Outback and the rough way Cory had treated him afterwards blazed out at her against his uncharacteristically pale skin.
His hands drifted listlessly by his sides, supported fully by the liquid, as the rest of him was. He lay there as motionless as he had been when she brought him to the hospital across town and was promptly pulled away by the burly Starlight bodyguards. Only his hair moved with the liquid, the wild black tresses he’d always kept pulled back fanned out around his head. Did it look just a little lighter, perhaps a dark brown instead of its usual jet black? Chase couldn’t tell, just thought it was.
Something flashed just above her line of vision, and that’s when she took full notice of the monitors. One showed the damage to Psly in total. She brought her hands to her lips, gasping slightly at the extent of the destruction. She couldn’t understand it all—the numbers, the obscure terms (Phoenix Reborn?), the total system fallout Pslyder had suffered.
“Oh God, poor Psly,” she murmured, running her hand along the edge of the tank, directing her speech to him for the first time in the ten minutes she sat there looking at him. “Hey, big guy…I’ll tell ya, I’ve seen better looking cabbages after they’ve been cooked.” She chuckled, the humor and the laugh both sounding hollow in the cavernous chamber, no response from Psly other than the sound of the liquid bubbling.
She looked at the monitor on the left that detailed all that had to be repaired on him, then looked to the left, frowning slightly. A blonde, green eyed man that looked like Psly’s fraternal twin was pictured there, and as she moved closer to look, she realized that she was looking at what had to be an “after” picture. Psly would be so different... but were his looks the only thing that would change?
It all looked so fraggin’ foreign to her as she struggled to understand. What had happened to him that night? Wasn’t he the Terminator? How could this have happened?
Chase walked slowly towards the tank, finally taking notice of two flat screen monitors that seemed to come as close as any to displaying what had happened to Pslyder and what was happening in the tank. It appeared to be filled with a viscous liquid, and she couldn’t even be sure that it was Psly by sight, for his electric blue eyes (as they had always been for her) were shrouded in a visor that reminded her of Geordi Laforge on Star Trek back home. His arms were covered by big sleeves, and colors flashed below the fabric—red, green, blue. On the skin that was exposed, the bruises from the last fight he had in the Outback and the rough way Cory had treated him afterwards blazed out at her against his uncharacteristically pale skin.
His hands drifted listlessly by his sides, supported fully by the liquid, as the rest of him was. He lay there as motionless as he had been when she brought him to the hospital across town and was promptly pulled away by the burly Starlight bodyguards. Only his hair moved with the liquid, the wild black tresses he’d always kept pulled back fanned out around his head. Did it look just a little lighter, perhaps a dark brown instead of its usual jet black? Chase couldn’t tell, just thought it was.
Something flashed just above her line of vision, and that’s when she took full notice of the monitors. One showed the damage to Psly in total. She brought her hands to her lips, gasping slightly at the extent of the destruction. She couldn’t understand it all—the numbers, the obscure terms (Phoenix Reborn?), the total system fallout Pslyder had suffered.
“Oh God, poor Psly,” she murmured, running her hand along the edge of the tank, directing her speech to him for the first time in the ten minutes she sat there looking at him. “Hey, big guy…I’ll tell ya, I’ve seen better looking cabbages after they’ve been cooked.” She chuckled, the humor and the laugh both sounding hollow in the cavernous chamber, no response from Psly other than the sound of the liquid bubbling.
She looked at the monitor on the left that detailed all that had to be repaired on him, then looked to the left, frowning slightly. A blonde, green eyed man that looked like Psly’s fraternal twin was pictured there, and as she moved closer to look, she realized that she was looking at what had to be an “after” picture. Psly would be so different... but were his looks the only thing that would change?
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Chase MacLaren
- Junior Adventurer
- Posts: 13
- Joined: Tue May 25, 2004 6:45 am
- Location: Elven Garage West, Downtown RhyDin
Morning...
Morning. Jono’s body is warmer than usual. This and the freshly scrubbed scent of his skin tells her he’s been out running. She’s never met an earlier bird than herself, so his sunrise disappearances and stealth in taking them never fail to give her a secret pleasure that only he could understand. She turns over, running a hand through his dark hair reverently, planting soft plump lipped kisses on his shoulder, feeling grateful for having him.
She loves him, she thinks. Many a time she’s come close to saying it, and thinks perhaps he has too, their fickle natures notwithstanding. She doesn’t exactly know why she won’t say it—fear, perhaps. The certainty of vulnerability, and the amount of time it takes for her to recover prevents it. Besides, what if she’s wrong about him feeling the same way?
Even now, the enemies gather. Apparently, someone got a hold of that tabloid with the picture of her leaving Rix’s house that morning, and now (just now? It happened so long ago…) someone, probably Rory, has given that pic to PJ. Did Chase care? Not at all. Her bases were covered. Jono knew about Rix long before he and Chase started seeing each other exclusively, and Chase hadn’t been with anyone else since. Chase and Rix hadn’t talked in so long… in fact, she worried about him the tiniest bit. At the time of the one-night stand, Rix wasn’t sure that he and PJ were still together, to Chase’s understanding. It was early in their relationship, apparently, and PJ was still playing mind games with him.
But Chase wouldn’t absolve herself completely. She honestly didn’t care then whether she hurt PJ, and she didn’t care now. PJ could have been there in the room with them, and if Rix didn’t mind, Chase would have had her pleasure regardless. If they were indeed together at the time, she should have clearly informed Rix, who until then, had been rather absorbed in the woman. Chase, in the meanwhile, would keep on doing what it is she does.
She wondered how that would go over with Jono, though. Jono, who, unlike Chase, seemed to do the things he does only out of necessity. Jono, who seemed to be very, very good at heart. Jono, who didn’t share Chase’s every-woman-for-herself attitude towards life. Would he be repulsed by this? Would he find it amusing? Would he even care?
She got up, fixing the oolong tea once more. Other things lay on her mind. Her deal with Vince Smith and the Starlight Foundation. Making Warlord so that she wouldn’t have to deal with Rory and her pet Talon of Redwin. Pslyder’s return, and how much things had changed.
She enjoyed her arrangement with Starlight, although she wasn’t exactly sure whether she liked Vince Smith at all. Rich boy, probably inheritance. An unearned insouciance, and the fervent belief that money could fix everything. She usually hated people like that. She usually preyed upon people like that. She thought that was why he seemed to like her so much. She imagined that he saw her as a dangerous pet—thrilling to have so that you could show people that you were unafraid and had control over this thing that could seriously injure you under other circumstances. Yet another demonstration of strength that she didn’t believe he really had. She’d won a 20% raise from him in a duel the night before. A stupid, cheap bet, but one she was willing to make, owning the enviable position of having nothing to lose. Starlight needed the Elven Garage much more than then Elven Garage needed Starlight, in her opinion. The additional money was just so that she would have the power and the ability to disappear with Jono if and when she ever needed to.
The Talon of Redwin. The thought of the dagger brought a smile to her face; pride brought the blush to her skin at its mention. She’d barely used it, the title coming to her at a time when her obsession with Jono was at its strongest. She’d returned it when Rory demanded it and merely smiled at the other woman’s accusation that Chase believed the dagger was hers permanently, surprising even herself with the control over her temper. She thought briefly of defending the title, and told Rory so, only to be thwarted on her way to the tournament by her own ennui and a deliciously forceful, bondage-adept, otherwise-minded Jono Shaw. And now, with this whole Rix and PJ thing blown way out of proportion (as was Rory’s style), Chase decided to take herself out of the firing lane altogether. Why be the ToR when she could compete with the higher skill levels? Why settle for one additional fancy for a short period when she could earn four as long as she held Warlord rank? Why deal with the constant hysterics of Rory Laurent when she could trade it for the cool, calm and collected sophistication of Altara d’Poison? She started training immediately. This was a challenge better suited to her assumptions around costs versus benefit.
Challenges. How fit. Frederick Thomas Alexander was very much a challenge. Chase still couldn’t claim to know all there was to know about what caused such a great change in Pslyder, but she couldn’t lie to herself and say she wasn’t pleased. The surfer boy blonde hair and deep green eyes looked so natural on him, his coldly efficient beauty as a brunette began to fade in her mind as an illusion. When she hugged him, he gave ever so slightly now, the unreal hardness of titanium replaced with the more organic firmness of lean muscle. There was a difference in his eyes that she couldn’t place before, but as she sat there, looking lovingly over Jono’s frame, she realized that it was the same thing that arrested her cruel tongue when Jono approached her the night they met. Pslyder’s gaze now had that quality that is reserved only for humans who have faced great pain and emerged from the other side forever changed. Openness, acceptance, determination, and grim realism shone from Pslyder’s green eyes now, and it was that quality that cut to the very heart of Mercer Chase MacLaren: the recognition of a kindred soul; someone you could lay your hat upon.
Of course, these thoughts were forbidden. She wasn’t the whore that Rory and PJ liked to think she was; she was merely untethered by the numerous opinions of RhyDin society. She had never cheated on Jono, and intended not to; their communication was clear, and there would be no missteps on either of their parts. Pslyder was her brother, only one of the two people she loved more dearly than herself, and that was to be the end of it. She planted another kiss upon Jono’s brow and went to see about the day’s orders.
She loves him, she thinks. Many a time she’s come close to saying it, and thinks perhaps he has too, their fickle natures notwithstanding. She doesn’t exactly know why she won’t say it—fear, perhaps. The certainty of vulnerability, and the amount of time it takes for her to recover prevents it. Besides, what if she’s wrong about him feeling the same way?
Even now, the enemies gather. Apparently, someone got a hold of that tabloid with the picture of her leaving Rix’s house that morning, and now (just now? It happened so long ago…) someone, probably Rory, has given that pic to PJ. Did Chase care? Not at all. Her bases were covered. Jono knew about Rix long before he and Chase started seeing each other exclusively, and Chase hadn’t been with anyone else since. Chase and Rix hadn’t talked in so long… in fact, she worried about him the tiniest bit. At the time of the one-night stand, Rix wasn’t sure that he and PJ were still together, to Chase’s understanding. It was early in their relationship, apparently, and PJ was still playing mind games with him.
But Chase wouldn’t absolve herself completely. She honestly didn’t care then whether she hurt PJ, and she didn’t care now. PJ could have been there in the room with them, and if Rix didn’t mind, Chase would have had her pleasure regardless. If they were indeed together at the time, she should have clearly informed Rix, who until then, had been rather absorbed in the woman. Chase, in the meanwhile, would keep on doing what it is she does.
She wondered how that would go over with Jono, though. Jono, who, unlike Chase, seemed to do the things he does only out of necessity. Jono, who seemed to be very, very good at heart. Jono, who didn’t share Chase’s every-woman-for-herself attitude towards life. Would he be repulsed by this? Would he find it amusing? Would he even care?
She got up, fixing the oolong tea once more. Other things lay on her mind. Her deal with Vince Smith and the Starlight Foundation. Making Warlord so that she wouldn’t have to deal with Rory and her pet Talon of Redwin. Pslyder’s return, and how much things had changed.
She enjoyed her arrangement with Starlight, although she wasn’t exactly sure whether she liked Vince Smith at all. Rich boy, probably inheritance. An unearned insouciance, and the fervent belief that money could fix everything. She usually hated people like that. She usually preyed upon people like that. She thought that was why he seemed to like her so much. She imagined that he saw her as a dangerous pet—thrilling to have so that you could show people that you were unafraid and had control over this thing that could seriously injure you under other circumstances. Yet another demonstration of strength that she didn’t believe he really had. She’d won a 20% raise from him in a duel the night before. A stupid, cheap bet, but one she was willing to make, owning the enviable position of having nothing to lose. Starlight needed the Elven Garage much more than then Elven Garage needed Starlight, in her opinion. The additional money was just so that she would have the power and the ability to disappear with Jono if and when she ever needed to.
The Talon of Redwin. The thought of the dagger brought a smile to her face; pride brought the blush to her skin at its mention. She’d barely used it, the title coming to her at a time when her obsession with Jono was at its strongest. She’d returned it when Rory demanded it and merely smiled at the other woman’s accusation that Chase believed the dagger was hers permanently, surprising even herself with the control over her temper. She thought briefly of defending the title, and told Rory so, only to be thwarted on her way to the tournament by her own ennui and a deliciously forceful, bondage-adept, otherwise-minded Jono Shaw. And now, with this whole Rix and PJ thing blown way out of proportion (as was Rory’s style), Chase decided to take herself out of the firing lane altogether. Why be the ToR when she could compete with the higher skill levels? Why settle for one additional fancy for a short period when she could earn four as long as she held Warlord rank? Why deal with the constant hysterics of Rory Laurent when she could trade it for the cool, calm and collected sophistication of Altara d’Poison? She started training immediately. This was a challenge better suited to her assumptions around costs versus benefit.
Challenges. How fit. Frederick Thomas Alexander was very much a challenge. Chase still couldn’t claim to know all there was to know about what caused such a great change in Pslyder, but she couldn’t lie to herself and say she wasn’t pleased. The surfer boy blonde hair and deep green eyes looked so natural on him, his coldly efficient beauty as a brunette began to fade in her mind as an illusion. When she hugged him, he gave ever so slightly now, the unreal hardness of titanium replaced with the more organic firmness of lean muscle. There was a difference in his eyes that she couldn’t place before, but as she sat there, looking lovingly over Jono’s frame, she realized that it was the same thing that arrested her cruel tongue when Jono approached her the night they met. Pslyder’s gaze now had that quality that is reserved only for humans who have faced great pain and emerged from the other side forever changed. Openness, acceptance, determination, and grim realism shone from Pslyder’s green eyes now, and it was that quality that cut to the very heart of Mercer Chase MacLaren: the recognition of a kindred soul; someone you could lay your hat upon.
Of course, these thoughts were forbidden. She wasn’t the whore that Rory and PJ liked to think she was; she was merely untethered by the numerous opinions of RhyDin society. She had never cheated on Jono, and intended not to; their communication was clear, and there would be no missteps on either of their parts. Pslyder was her brother, only one of the two people she loved more dearly than herself, and that was to be the end of it. She planted another kiss upon Jono’s brow and went to see about the day’s orders.
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Chase MacLaren
- Junior Adventurer
- Posts: 13
- Joined: Tue May 25, 2004 6:45 am
- Location: Elven Garage West, Downtown RhyDin
A small token...
She ran the chamois cloth along the frame of the bike for the 37th time, although it seemed like the 1st. She could see herself in the panels’ black shine, the smile she didn’t realize she was sporting visible there. She couldn’t believe that she was finally finished with it, and it would finally make its way to its final owner.
She wished it was Trevor, but alas, she was still working on the exhaust system for that project. Here was another labour of love, this time for the love of someone else, and not her own. She’d started on this, a replica of the first bike she’d ever owned, a vintage Triumph Daytona 955i with a 3-cylinder, digital fuel injection engine with a 6-speed gearbox transmission, about a year ago, shortly after she met Jonothon Shaw. Completely different from Pslyder's current designs, she built it by memory, stopping from time to time as she installed the wet clutch, the aluminum alloy frame, the jet black panels, the chrome exhaust system. She stepped back, admiring it, and herself, by proxy. This was easily the best motorcycle she’d ever created.
Once, Ticallion Carter asked her whether she’d ever created a bike that expressed and represented her. Although he’d never asked for one, she was curious to know what that bike would be, and began building it then. And now, here it was. She knew about a week before it was finished that it was destined to be a symbol of herself that she would give to Jono to mark the year she’d spent with him. Who else could she give it to whom she wouldn’t follow, becoming incensed that they would dirty it, or otherwise abuse it? Only with Jono would she not care—she, like the bike would be, was his completely, to care for as he saw fit.
She’d tested it yesterday, hoping that her version of the British engineering that made her bike so loved and cherished would be safe for Jono, whom she could see flying along RhyDin’s streets on this thing like she could see her own hand. His black hair flying away from his dark eyes, the coat billowing behind him, his frame melded to the bike like she once melded to that Shelby Mustang so long ago. She built the machine tough, powerful, and fast, making sure that if he needed to get away from danger, it would be her caress, her love that enabled him to return to her safely.
She sat down, looking at her clean, albeit knotted and ringless hands, that once wielded car keys and other people’s wallets. Now they wielded only wrenches and other tools, the keys to this garage, occasionally a katana. So much had changed, some for the better, others for the worse. Pslyder had disappeared again, and her thoughts turned to him often, wishing just to lay eyes on him once more. Rix had returned, but if he gave a thought to Chase, it escaped her. That entire crew, particularly Sartan, seemed to have forgotten her, which she thought was just as well. She arrived here alone, and it only seemed fit that she should remain alone, with the exception of her exquisite Jono.
The Starlight account proved to be very lucrative for her—if she wanted to stop working at this moment, she could, and would be well taken care of for the rest of her life, she estimated from her bank accounts. The pay from her contract with the Mercenarii Dueling Club also helped, and gave her a notoriety that her captain, Cassius Maximius, whom she admired and respected, used to increase the club’s popularity. Chase began to get tired of seeing herself all over the place with that stoic look, her hair pinned up elegantly, and clad in authentic Roman garb. She’d finally made Warlord, just in time to miss this cycle’s Talon of Redwin Tournament, which she was thankful for. She made that vow to herself that she wouldn’t put herself in that situation again, and she hadn’t, although she still wanted to improve her skills. Aside from that, all was good in the MacLaren world.
Tical Carter had returned to the community recently, however, an event that didn’t go unnoticed by Chase. In fact, Chase’s regard hadn’t gone unnoticed by some other people as well. She hated to admit that she still had that crush on him, but it hadn’t ever really gone away, despite the fact that she loved Jono fiercely.
Tical, however, was still so very attractive to her. And truthfully, all she had done was look. She wasn’t shy about her sexual appetites—if she’d had him, she’d had him, and wouldn’t deny it. But, she’d only looked. Where was the harm in that? Even when she was single, she hadn’t so much as touched him, let alone the distance she did keep when they actually spoke to each other. She fiercely hated the gossips in RhyDin, who whispered amongst themselves about her intentions towards Tical and any perceived infidelities she may have committed against Jono. She hadn’t, and she wouldn’t.
So why did she feel so defensive? Why did she feel laid open as if she’d been stripped bare in the street? Worse, why did she show that to Jono? Why make him worry about something he need not worry about? She could only chalk it up to her relative inexperience with committed relationships, and her tendency to run and gun at all times. She figured that it was a natural reaction—even back in Earth, she always felt like she was continually under attack, and that was one of the few things that hadn’t changed since she’d arrived in RhyDin. And as a result of showing that reaction to Jono, this gift would seem more like atonement for an imagined slight rather than the heartfelt gift she’d intended.
She hated that. She hated this guilt for nothing. She refused to feel it.
“Get up and go fight,” she intoned. “Make yourself feel better.”
She wished it was Trevor, but alas, she was still working on the exhaust system for that project. Here was another labour of love, this time for the love of someone else, and not her own. She’d started on this, a replica of the first bike she’d ever owned, a vintage Triumph Daytona 955i with a 3-cylinder, digital fuel injection engine with a 6-speed gearbox transmission, about a year ago, shortly after she met Jonothon Shaw. Completely different from Pslyder's current designs, she built it by memory, stopping from time to time as she installed the wet clutch, the aluminum alloy frame, the jet black panels, the chrome exhaust system. She stepped back, admiring it, and herself, by proxy. This was easily the best motorcycle she’d ever created.
Once, Ticallion Carter asked her whether she’d ever created a bike that expressed and represented her. Although he’d never asked for one, she was curious to know what that bike would be, and began building it then. And now, here it was. She knew about a week before it was finished that it was destined to be a symbol of herself that she would give to Jono to mark the year she’d spent with him. Who else could she give it to whom she wouldn’t follow, becoming incensed that they would dirty it, or otherwise abuse it? Only with Jono would she not care—she, like the bike would be, was his completely, to care for as he saw fit.
She’d tested it yesterday, hoping that her version of the British engineering that made her bike so loved and cherished would be safe for Jono, whom she could see flying along RhyDin’s streets on this thing like she could see her own hand. His black hair flying away from his dark eyes, the coat billowing behind him, his frame melded to the bike like she once melded to that Shelby Mustang so long ago. She built the machine tough, powerful, and fast, making sure that if he needed to get away from danger, it would be her caress, her love that enabled him to return to her safely.
She sat down, looking at her clean, albeit knotted and ringless hands, that once wielded car keys and other people’s wallets. Now they wielded only wrenches and other tools, the keys to this garage, occasionally a katana. So much had changed, some for the better, others for the worse. Pslyder had disappeared again, and her thoughts turned to him often, wishing just to lay eyes on him once more. Rix had returned, but if he gave a thought to Chase, it escaped her. That entire crew, particularly Sartan, seemed to have forgotten her, which she thought was just as well. She arrived here alone, and it only seemed fit that she should remain alone, with the exception of her exquisite Jono.
The Starlight account proved to be very lucrative for her—if she wanted to stop working at this moment, she could, and would be well taken care of for the rest of her life, she estimated from her bank accounts. The pay from her contract with the Mercenarii Dueling Club also helped, and gave her a notoriety that her captain, Cassius Maximius, whom she admired and respected, used to increase the club’s popularity. Chase began to get tired of seeing herself all over the place with that stoic look, her hair pinned up elegantly, and clad in authentic Roman garb. She’d finally made Warlord, just in time to miss this cycle’s Talon of Redwin Tournament, which she was thankful for. She made that vow to herself that she wouldn’t put herself in that situation again, and she hadn’t, although she still wanted to improve her skills. Aside from that, all was good in the MacLaren world.
Tical Carter had returned to the community recently, however, an event that didn’t go unnoticed by Chase. In fact, Chase’s regard hadn’t gone unnoticed by some other people as well. She hated to admit that she still had that crush on him, but it hadn’t ever really gone away, despite the fact that she loved Jono fiercely.
Tical, however, was still so very attractive to her. And truthfully, all she had done was look. She wasn’t shy about her sexual appetites—if she’d had him, she’d had him, and wouldn’t deny it. But, she’d only looked. Where was the harm in that? Even when she was single, she hadn’t so much as touched him, let alone the distance she did keep when they actually spoke to each other. She fiercely hated the gossips in RhyDin, who whispered amongst themselves about her intentions towards Tical and any perceived infidelities she may have committed against Jono. She hadn’t, and she wouldn’t.
So why did she feel so defensive? Why did she feel laid open as if she’d been stripped bare in the street? Worse, why did she show that to Jono? Why make him worry about something he need not worry about? She could only chalk it up to her relative inexperience with committed relationships, and her tendency to run and gun at all times. She figured that it was a natural reaction—even back in Earth, she always felt like she was continually under attack, and that was one of the few things that hadn’t changed since she’d arrived in RhyDin. And as a result of showing that reaction to Jono, this gift would seem more like atonement for an imagined slight rather than the heartfelt gift she’d intended.
She hated that. She hated this guilt for nothing. She refused to feel it.
“Get up and go fight,” she intoned. “Make yourself feel better.”
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