crowded streets all cleared away
one by one
hallowed heroes separate
as they run
Bicyclists, on occasion, and after receiving constant abuse from the idiots driving cars, will pick a night on which they rally themselves to swarm the streets as a single uncontrollable mass. The event is aptly named Critical Mass. It is a night of slightly inconveniencing thousands of drivers, in return for all of the doors that were opened on bikes, and all of the cars that ran them over for lack of watchfulness. Someone had the bright idea to do the same with motorcycles one night. The event came about when the fury over the quasi-legal mercenary cops was nearing its climax. Stories of mercenaries acting unfairly and abusing people's rights fueled the rumor mills. Most of the people did nothing, however, as they were accustomed to being herded, accustomed to letting the government stick its proverbial gloved hand wherever it wanted.
The collective ridding of motorcyclists, sparse and unorganized as they were, was the closest thing to a known credible threat the reigning political powers of the city had. Spies were sent out on Greywater's dime, and the times (assuming no rain, of course) and location of the planned ride were relayed directly to the city's "anti terrorism" unit, as in modern political parlance, every one you don't like is either a nazi or a terrorist. Plans were made, barricades were erected, checkpoints and security theatres installed. Many of the surface streets were blockaded as well.
The night of the ride was a Friday, and became the worst traffic jam in the city's history. Traffic cones funneled all incoming highways down to one or two lanes, where police and Greywater security manned "checkpoints," occasionally sniffing out DUIs but really just looking for excuses make motorcyclists pull over. Such excuses including spotting motorcycles splitting lanes and looking for devices that flipped license plates. All Greywater Security personel showed up in full riot gear.
Elsewhere, a loose caravan of five brilliantly colored muscle cars with street glow drove in loose formation.
Biff began the night with a slightly different purpose: the road ninja signal was lit and he wanted to know why. The signal that was to never shine again had been installed on one of the highest skyscrapers, and was being continually redirected towards the closest clouds, an ever moving spotlight begging the road ninja to return from the dead. Biff came forth on his...prime motorcycle, the black Aprilla, intent on bringing his wrath against the prime suspect in his head, assuming that she was the one still manning the signal. Primal rage was briefly overtaken by a wave of animal lust. His mission was delayed, however, when he saw the checkpoint.
Biff split the lanes for miles, heading directly for the checkpoint. He surveyed their strength. Three squad cars blocking traffic, five parked, eight real cops and ten mercenaries pointing automatic weapons at a row of motorcyclists with their hands behind their heads. The presence of those automatic weapons raised the situation to the highest category of threat in Biff's mind. The correct move came at him immediately: go full trottle, ignite the nitro, and slam on the front brake tens of feet from the barricade, sending the bike flipping forward into the cop cars, or maybe a group of mercenaries, with lethal force. However, Biff had only ever accomplished this move with stunt bikes. He knew of only one person that ever did it with an Aprilla. So instead, he popped a wheelie, slammed down just in front of the barricade and began weaving his way through, giving the finger to the first cop that screamed at him to stop. He was quickly surrounded, at a stop, by men holding guns and tasers. They screamed what they always screamed. Biff held up a grenade with the pin popped, and basked in the delicious expressions that washed over their faces. The cops and mercenaries backed away. "Don't tase me bro," was all he said
Half a mile away, on a different road, a hooded figure watched the standoff for a few moments, then finished covering a black sports car with a heavy canvas.
Biff feigned a toss. They ran. He rolled the grenade--his only flashbang--under a car and took off. Behind him he heard the a loud (but not loud enough) pop, and saw a bit of smoke in his rear view mirror. Biff had used a real grenade, believing that one should never completely bluff with that move, but it had been an old one. Behind him, the checkpoint was reduced to half-strength as most of the manpower was hopping in their cars to chase him. He had a three quarter tank and two nitros. Biff accelerated, but forced himself to breathe slow, to tame the adrenaline. Steel nerves clamped down on his excitement. It was race 'o clock and he had work to do.
Eve was similarly caught unawares by the chaos. Among those dead-stopped in traffic, her commute home within the city became her initiation to the community of splitting lanes and riding on shoulders. She had done three U-turns to avoid checkpoints (and therefore avoid getting in trouble for having a flip plate) by the time the path of least resistance had shifted her far from the inner core of the city and onto lesser streets. She'd made up her mind to stop and wait it out at a bar. Then a black SUV ran her off the road. The man who got out was the man who had pulled her over before and tried to force her to go on a date with him. Interesting fact: this man's favorite color was purple.
"Get off the bike!" The man pointed a handgun at her. Eve sensed extreme danger and kept Carby running as she dismounted. Carby sensed her fear. His RPMs dipped. Eve backed up and stood near Carby's right corner. The mercenary had planned to cuff her wrists behind her and bend her over the hood of his SUV, but then he saw that her riding suite was a full piece. It would have to be the back seat instead. He pulled out his taser. "Let's see how you like this."
Eve's mouth dropped when she saw the taser but one of her new instincts took over. She took the gemmed sword from its hiding place under Carby's rear faring and swept up and sliced the merc's taser hand at the wrist. The small, straight sword was not meant for slicing; it did not sever tendons. The man was bleeding, however, and he was a veteran of no war. He dropped everything and clutched his arm below the wrist, screaming. Eve placed one of her boots behind one of his and shoved, sending him sprawling on his back. She held the sword at his neck, gripping with one hand, the other flat against the end of the handle, poised for the kill blow like a warrior goddess on the ancient battlefield. The sword bent neckflesh, but would not go further. She could not commit herself to the kill stroke. She was not a killer. Then she looked down and saw that the mercenary had wet himself. Eve wiped the blade clean of blood on the man's sleeve, sheathed it, and rode away as quick as she could.
The mercenary was not so easily beaten. He got back in his SUV and made a radio call: "Gray 21 in pursuit of pink motorcycle, license plate alpha, kilo, one, three, three, lima. Shots fired." In reality, it was the rider that was pink and not her totally awesome motorcycle (who is single, by the way! loves long rides near but not on the beach!), but of course no shots had been fired either.
Outside and west of the city, five brightly colored muscle cars rounded a bend. Their drivers caught sight of the skyline, with the road ninja signal shining in the center like the beacons of Gondor. One by one, the cars accelerated.
Somewhere within the city, a man wearing a dark grey hoodie, and who was not a fireman, slipped into a fire hall and started a fire truck. The power mysteriously cut out just as the bay doors opened. The man in the fire truck turned left and headed for the nearest checkpoint. This one only had two police cars. He rammed into one, pushing it onto the sidewalk and into a building. Then he backed up and ran the other one off the road as well. It was a confused scene for a while, but traffic did resume. The man in the hoodie headed on to the next checkpoint but stopped first to install a sound system to his satisfaction. He flipped a switch, and suddenly the cabin and the intersection outside was filled with the sound of Shipping up to Boston.
The fire truck was the small kind, the kind that did not require a rear driver. Still, it packed some serious momentum. The hooded figure turned toward trench town. The checkpoint was south of the bridge. The fire truck roared across with music blasting that even the impatient drivers could hear.
I'm shipping off
To find my wooden leg
I'm a sailor peg
And I lost my leg
I climbed up the topsails
I lost my leg
I'm shipping up to Boston
To find my wooden leg
I'm a sailor peg
And I lost my leg
I climbed up the topsails
I lost my leg
I'm shipping up to Boston
The police and mercenaries saw the truck coming. The driver placed extra emphasis on whose side he was on by laying on the trucks powerful horn, which eclipsed even the loud music. As the truck increased to its top speed, it began shifting laterally in order to hit as many cars as it could. It was at this point that the cops and mercenaries fled. The fire truck's sole occupant laid down on the seat and wrapped himself in the seat belts. The truck slammed through a throng of cars and SUVs, sending one into the grass median, one spinning around itself, and piling three up, appearing to toss them harmlessly into the area made vacant by traffic cones.
The truck had so much momentum left over that it had to use its brakes to stop. It backed up, coming alone side the wall of speechless and handcuffed motorcycle riders. The door opened, and a hooded figure stepped out just as Shipping up to Boston ended and the instrumental version of Nightwish's Amaranth started playing. It was a soft spot in the noise that allowed him to shout: "WHO WANTS TO DRIVE?" Eager volunteers boarded, and handcuff keys made their rounds, coming to rest in the pockets of those formerly bound. The fire truck started moving again. It took a while for its new crew to realize that their hooded captain was missing.
Far away atop a hill with view of that location, five muscle cars were parked with their lights shining over the edge of a cliff. Five drivers stood, looking at the city laid out before them. Two of those five considered themselves former apprentices of the road ninja, and the other three were of similar skill. Lawrence Lee, the owner of the yellow camero, stood on the right. To his left stood Jason Web, whose red and black leather jacket matched his red mustang. To his left was the one they called Snow Monkey, whose real name is not important. Snow Monkey brought with him a purple road runner, and a purple long sleeved shirt to match, which he wore under his open leather jacket. To his left was Dave--not the Dave who appears in the rest of this story but an entirely different one. Don't worry, he won't be mentioned by name again. Dave's ride was a blue Trans Am. Ok now he won't be mentioned by name again. The fourth member of their informal squad shall remain unnamed, but his car was also a camero, and it was bright green.
The boys stood in a row, dented into a slight semi-circle, because, well, they knew how to stand in such times as these: hands on their hips, one foot forward a little as if it was on a rock or something, shoulders turned a bit, staring out, not looking at each other as they talked. Behind them their muscle cars purred like the cats of Queen Beruthiel, and behind them, the runway of midfield airstrip, or KSGIP, as Snow Monkey referred to it.
"These checkpoints are going to be problematic."
One of them raised their arms. "Below us, never a greater hum of scive and villany!"
"Dammit man."
"What the fuck?"
"Are you drunk?"
"No!"
"Scum of hive--oh fuck you have me saying it wrong now."
"Gentlemen! The task at hand."
They discussed this briefly. Then they caught sight of a fire truck coming over a bridge, heading for the checkpoint. The conversation died as they watched it slam into the police cars, throwing them everywhere. They looked at each other.
"Oh hell yes."
"Fire trucks."
"Biff would approve."
"His ninjaness would be proud. His in...the memory, honored..."
"...rest in peace," one of them mumbled.
They were moving to their cars.
"What do you think, two to a truck?"
"Snow, can you provide air support?"
The man nicknamed Snow Money held up a can of black spray paint he'd just pulled from the trunk of his car. "I'll be in the air in fifteen minutes. Pair up so at least one of you knows the damn street names."
"Man I wish the girls were here. You know how hot they get when we-"
"Hey!"
"This is an official mission, man."
"Keep your head clear."
"I'm justs saying, you know, I wish."
"Word."
The muscle cars, except for the purple one, roared away, cutting directly across the runway of the uncontrolled airport. Snow Monkey walked past a line of sexy low-wing aircraft and popped the lock on a tiny little cessna. He didn't feel sexy in a high wing aircraft, but he needed a good view of what was below. Snow expedited his preflight, pausing to spraypaint over the tail numbers. Then he got a bright idea and spraypainted an R and a backwards N under the wing. A tribute to the master. As he did this deed, a single verse escaped his lips, nearly as an afterthought:
gone is the rider, on a chariot of fire
silent is the horn that blew
who shall challenge the skies of grey dust and ash
legend has passed into spring's shadow
vanished like the faint mountain's dew
Biff approached the signal crossing. A train was coming, but it was too far away. Biff blew through the crossing before the lights even came on. Shit. The cops followed him, around and to the next signal crossing. Timing this right forced him to slow down, and they caught up to him. The first car was on his left. The window was open. The passenger was yelling. The drivers right hand moved to the wheel, ready to cut him off. Biff threw his wrench through the window. It narrowly missed the passenger cop and struck its intended target. The car swerved, and interfered with the passage of the others. Biff was within a half-mile of the next crossing. The timing was still good. The next car approached. Biff yanked his helmet strap loose. The lights of the train crossing began to flash. The cop knew what Biff planned, and sped up. Biff pulled his helmet off with his right hand, swinging it up, back, down around in one giant arc, finally sending it back at the cop's windshield. It was a direct hit, creating tight circles of white fractures that spread out and rendered the entire windshield too opaque for successful pursuit. The beams of the train crossing began to lower. Biff was now without eye protection. He aimed, squinted, and then leaned forward, lending every spare kilo of his weight to the enterprise of keeping his front wheel on the ground as he ignited the nitro. The bikes engine screamed and redlined, and Biff ducked his head behind the tiny-ass windshield. He passed under the crossing beams as they lowered, clearing them by inches. The remaining cop car, and the one whose driver had been merely hit by a metal tool, floored their vehicles, intending to break through the beams and beat the train. Then they realized they were too late and slammed on their brakes. The train passed in front of them, and behind it, the road ninja vanished.
Biff put on a pair of lightly tinted safety glasses, the glasses he kept for when a girl wanted a ride and was given his helmet. He squirreled his way around in the direction of the central office building where the ninja signal had been installed. He was parallel to the highway when he saw, below it, Evelyn in pink, on her bike, being chased by an SUV-type minivan. Biff saw more than heard the gunfire, his eyes attracted to the bright flash of the muzzle. Biff's conscious mind was briefly transported to another night a long time ago, to the image of a pink rider, the pink rider, the elusive, beautiful, evanescent love of his heart, flying through the air, her eyes briefly locked on his shortly before the impact that severed her spinal cord.
With the cry of a man reaching for a falling friend, Biff twisted the throttle. A reflex saved him from fully opening it, which would have flipped the bike. In an instant, his mind reviewed the move that would involve riding full speed at the minivan with feet on the seat, jumping at the last instant, and rejected it. There was nothing but concrete pillars and rubbish on the other side of the mercenary's ride--nothing he could slam his body into at 100/160 mph/kph and expect to live. No, there was only one move. He had never done it before, and he had not the proper gear: he was wearing a leather jacket instead of his upper body armor and didn't even have a damn helmet. It was a tight spot.
Biff accelerated, the booming of his engine growing and then suddenly shrinking with every shift to a higher gear, far past the point at which Biff's every instinct, every fiber of his body screamed at the dire mismatch between his speed and the surrounding--more importantly oncoming--terrain. Biff pictured the way the first pink rider's body looked when she had done the move in nothing but that riding suit, but only for a moment, for he had to concentrate: the timing had to be just right. The pink rider and her attacker were in a perpendicular line of travel. Biff ignited the nitro at the wrong place in the power curve, which damaged the engine in a way that ultimately didn't matter. Then he actually tapped the rear brake a bit, making sure everything lined up. The needle on the speedo swung far past 120/193 mph/kph.
Then Biff squeezed the front brake, hard. The bike flipped forward. His world was a flash. He did his best to guide the bike with his legs, but they did little good. Then the bike was gone, and he was consumed with preventing his sudden death. Skidding along asphalt at speeds in excess of 100 miles per hour is no joke. The friction can quickly wear leather and jean down to flesh, and flesh down to bone. Biff landed on his boots, balancing on them like an alphine skiier who loses purchase on a sheet of ice and spreads his skiis wide, putting all of his cards into balance. Balance became a fall, and Biff was sliding on his ass, with the padding wearing down with each meter he slid. He raised himself up by his gauntlets--riding gloves that were unnecessarily tough because he was planning on literally punching someone's lights out later. By this time over half of his kinetic energy had dissipated, but there was still a lot left when the gauntlet move put him into a spin. He tumbled. He tried to protect his head, but there was a loud blow that disrupted any remaining ability to affect his fate.
Once again Eve had never been so scared in her life. This was like the fourth fucking time. How much college did Carby cost? Don't think about that. The road! Fucking gunfire. Shit, sugar. Back and forth, babe, don't give that fucker a clear shot. Her body was so jacked up on adrenaline that every limb was shaking. Any single pothole would have ended her run, and she was less than a minute away from losing control for no other reason than her own fear. Then something flashed in her mirror, and there was a gunshot that was much softer than the others, and the shots ceased. Eve looked in her mirror and saw the SUV impaled on a pillar. She looked ahead at a red light and slammed on her breaks, having just enough sense left to drag her feet on the ground and keeping the light bike from falling.
Eve breathed. Carby's engine redlined with the clutch in. She let go of the throttle, then the clutch, and Carby lurched forward and stalled. It did not fall.
Ow! yelled Carby.
Eve caught her breath, keeping an eye on the crashed SUV, severely worried that it might suddenly roar to life and start shooting at her again. After a minute or two her heart began to slow. Then it sped up again.
Someone far behind her, near the SUV, rose from the ground, staggering toward it. She knew that figure, somehow. Eve started the bike again and drove back slowly. She stopped fifty feet from the disabled--no totaled--SUV. There was a fucking motorcycle in the SUV, compressed into the space where the driver used to be. There was blood. Eve stopped the engine, took off her helmet and hung it on the mirror. The SUV had also crashed into a pole, compressing the engine. There was little left of it that was unharmed by the collisions. Eve dismounted, and saw Biff.
Biff was covered in blood and dust. There was a wound on his right temple. His jacket was ripped, both sleeves torn enough to reveal possible lacerations on his forearms. He walked with the wobbly limp of someone in severe pain but still coming down from an adrenaline high. Heavy, black gloves swung at his sides with no clear rhythm. He glanced at the SUV, and appeared to nod to himself, satisfied at something. Then he looked at her. His blue eyes were alight and blazing, like electric fire.
Eve backed up and drew her sword from its hiding place. Biff advanced. She retreated. He advanced farther, and again. Eve stepped to the side, turning his advance into a strange, circular dance. Biff tore something out of his jacket. It appeared to twirl in the air briefly, then lock into place with a loud chink. It was a butterfly knife.
Biff lounged. Eve tried to block his advance with her sword. Biff swung, disarming her in a single unusual arc of motion. The sword clattered on the ground. Biff stopped three feet from her. His knife disappeared.
"Did you light that signal?" He pointed at the orange glow in the sky. As he did so, the beam flickered on another cloud, as if the operator was crying out for attention.
"N-No."
Biff looked at the road ninja signal, which shifted again, and back at Eve, who was clearly not operating it.
"I guess not." Biff looked around. "I need to borrow your bike."
Eve backed up a step. "You're not so nice with bikes...."
"It saved your life." Biff nodded towards the wreck. He held out his hand.
Eve winced and dropped her keys into it. "Take good care of him."
"I will." Biff was on the bike, and then he was off.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Eve ran, scrambled up an embankment and leapt over the guardrail.
An olive skinned rider on a large, yellow and for some reason completely legal motorcycle, who had passed peacefully through the checkpoints, saw a pink rider land on the shoulder, her hair blowing in the air. She was tight. He pulled over and asked for a lift.
"I need to get to Ball street and Volley ave."
"Hop on."
Just South of that location, a police helicopter had been given orders to report somewhere north of its position. This chopper would have then seen and reported Biff if the right-seat pilot had not screamed "TRAFFIC!" and pointed dead ahead of them. A cessna was flying straight at them. The pilot had little time to react, especially since the helicopter was more or less stationary at that time, with no momentum to divert. Fortunately, the cessna rolled to a dangerous 60 degree bank and narrowly avoided them. They felt the buffet.
"Snow Monkey, Captain Crunch."
"Snow Monkey."
"Crunch is ready for more."
"First intersection fifth and bounce. Second intersection Crowe and McDuff."
"Understand fifth an' bounce, crowe an' McDuff."
"Monkey is heading out. Coppers are screaming at ATC about me."
"Understand Snow Monkey is a giant pussy."
Snow Monkey clicked his mike twice in response, rolling his eyes, and double-checked that his transponder was OFF. He ducked low to quickly increase his airspeed just shy of never exceed, bolting out of the south theatre of the battle.
Below him, Jason turned his fire truck onto Bounce street, heading for the police barricade at 5th Avenue. Later, at some point the mercenaries would unload their automatic weapons at the fire truck, and Jason and Lawrence would laugh hysterically, and consider it fitting given that they'd heard of a time when fire trucks had been used to capture illegal street racers. But theirs is no longer a part of this story, save for the fact that traffic everywhere was cleared up within the hour.
Biff had business at the tower in the center of the city, but Carby was riding on empty and he was forced to pull over. He was also very much in need of a bottle of painkillers. His arms were burning, though at least not dripping blood, and his legs, head and chest ached. The chest pain was more of a burning; Biff suspected bruised rib. Though it was painful, he could inhale, mostly, which should rule out pneumothorax.
Though he was on a different bike with a different license plate, a black [clad] rider on a black bike is a black rider on a black bike, and one so obviously injured as Biff clearly matched the description "unarmed and extremely dangerous." As Biff filled the tank, a police car pulled up in front of him and a mercenary minivan behind him. They were both riding alone, and both drew their guns.
Biff looked at them and did not move. They insisted more loudly, probably something about getting on the ground, who knows. Typical cop bitching. Gasoline spewed out of the now full 3-gallon tank, but he still didn't move--not even his hand. It was their only warning.
Biff flicked the pump handle left, hosing premium gasoline directly into the merc's face. The cop lunged forward but Biff, without looking, thrust his hand out, sending a white, powdery substance into the cops eyes that would be later identified as magnesium carbonate, or climbing chalk. The cop fell at Biffs feet and Biff recovered the man's sidearm. He hopped on Carby and started the engine.
Yee haaaaa! said Carby.
Two more cop cruisers approached as Biff pulled on to the street. Carby was manuverable as hell, but not fast at all. Biff did his best, reading the traffic and using low speed maneuvers so that Carby still had enough power to spring ahead when he yanked the throttle back. He managed to lose one of the cop cars, but the second followed him into a tunnel. Biff had the advantage. He raced through the tight corners, up and almost out the other side when a black SUV-type minivan lurched in front of him. Biff braked, spun the bike around, and headed back under the building. If he could make it to the loading dock....
He could not. The cop car met him too early. He was stopped, sandwiched between a cop and mercenary on a 30 or maybe higher degree incline in the tight, concrete passage. They paused for a moment before opening their doors. A moment was all Biff needed. He pulled out a handgun in each hand, twisting his body and stretching his arms wide like a great eagle's wings. He fired repeatedly into each windshield. The shots were horribly inaccurate, because he was firing one handed, as well as slow, because, again, he was firing one handed. Putting a gun in each hand is a terrible way to kill anything, but it does look good in movies and it is a great way to stir up havoc. Biff leaned to Carby's left in order to get the position just right. When the gunshots paused, the cop and the merc, who had tucked down and made ready their own weapons, sat back up and fired. Biff threw himself off Carby and to the right, still keeping Carby's right handlebar pressed with two fingers in order to hold the front brake on. The bullets missed him, but did not glance off harmless surfaces. One of the cop's bullets hit the merc, and one of the merc's bullets hit the cop, as Biff intended. Biff clawed at the side fairing to keep the bike from tipping.
The mercenary and the cop both let off their brakes a little. The cop car and the SUV both began to roll down the tunnel. Biff crawled, slid, waddled as best his could to keep Carby between them. Then the cop, clutching his chest, deliberately let go of his brake in order to back off and call for backup. Biff hopped onto Carby. The mercenary was hit in the arm and could not shoot, but instead he hit the gas, trying to run Biff over. He would later admit in court that he knew this action had a high likelihood of further damaging the police cruiser.
The loading dock appeared before the SUV could reach Biff. Biff veered out of the way. The SUV crashed into the police cruiser, and Biff escaped behind it.
The hot guy with the big yellow bike dropped Eve off where she asked, and asked for her number. She said "not tonight" but did hint that he might see her around. She did not, in fact, use the word "boyfriend," although she was maybe ok with Dave saying "girlfriend."
The building was a shared commercial space, a large chunk of which was occupied by Marksen Lot. Inside, the security guard appeared to be strangely absent, although he was actually just unconscious somewhere behind the desk. Also the elevators didn't seem to work without a key card. They were, in fact, completely disabled, except for the one that was in key mode on the 45th floor. Eve took the stairs.
The first eight flights were fine. Cake, even. She was in great shape. Up to fifteen, she slowed down. After twenty, she slowed way down. A couple floors later, she collapsed on the floor and waited to catch her breath. She continued her pace, far more slowly, with a lengthy pause every two floors. The 20s slowly became 30s. It felt like an hour had passed since entering the building when she finally hit the big 4-0. Oh, and she was carrying her sword. Despite Biff's apparent prowess at deflecting it, the sword was now mandatory equipment for any place where she might meet him. In fact, she shouldn't be anywhere near this building, but she had to know. It felt like an hour had passed since she had entered the building when she heard grunts above her. Stealing a glance up through the opening between the stairs, she saw a hand. Temporarily forgetting her exhaustion, she darted up and around and found Biff, halfway up a flight, clutching the railing with a death grip and heavily favoring his left leg. He was doing it very one step at a time.
Biff whirled around in what would have been a quick, alert movement had he been, you know, anywhere near sea level. Instead, his climbing and his drive had his brain running low on oxygen and the movement looked more like that of a drunk man. Whatever threat could have been there in his eyes was drowned out by exhaustion. Eve smiled at him, and without a word, caught up to him and slung his arm around his shoulder. Together they ascended the remaining flights of stairs. Eve forced them to stop at every landing to breathe and rest. At one of them, Biff turned to her and looked at her. There was still blood on his face.
Biff was drawn to her face, and for the first time, he appreciated her beauty, her true beauty that extended beyond her exquisite physical form, down to the steel core of her soul. He saw what Dave had seen months earlier, and he felt a wave of love that, while brief, was not overshadowed by a fear that he was just clutching for something that vaguely resembled Christine, the real pink rider. No, Eve was most definitely her own person. She wore the suit; it did not wear her. A strong magnetic force pulled Biff's lips toward hers, and though hers opened slightly in anticipation, Biff, instead, diverted the movement and kissed her on her forehead.
They continued.
Seeing the final flight of stairs to the roof exit, and a glimpse of a thick, green extension cord, was...glorious. Eve would have plenty of time later to think of a better adjective. They felt a tad more energetic and burst onto the roof. The orange spotlight was directly in front of them, ten feet away, near the edge of the roof. It was pointed towards nowhere in the sky in particular. Something seemed wrong in the back of Biff's mind, but he was too tired to think on it.
They looked around. The roof seemed deserted. They stood there for many minutes, and exchanged words that observers could not hear. The way Eve looked at Biff, though, the way she was balanced forward, leaning more on her toes, body stretched subtly outward and upward, like her breasts were pointing at him--that was no secret, not to someone who was a veteran at reading body language.
"Are you so cold? Are you really so obsessed with yourself and your own baggage that you can't let anyone else in?" Eve asked him, a bit louder. She placed a hand on his chest.
Biff regarded her while sorting through about twenty bitter, sarcastic responses. None quite fit. He was spared from his task however.
Orwell kicked the door. It was already open, but he wanted to make an entrance. Then the door bounced and flew back at him and he had to catch it with his free hand. Not so dramatic. He had a gun though. That was impressive. The guy in front of the spotlight: it was him. Him and his bitch girlfriend. Him, the man to had clocked him upside (Orwell doesn't know what 'upside' actually means) the head with a crowbar (actually a socket wrench) and put him in the hospital. "I knew it was you!" said Orwell. Not just the man with the crowbar (socket wrench!) but the...that...fuckface that hung out with those turds over at Wilson's Tire Garage back--
"You were there," said Biff. Biff recognized Orwell immediately, and not just from their altercation at the bridge. Biff now recognized Orwell's as one of the faces burned into his memory when he had cradled Christine Miller's hand in his lap--her hand because he was praying to the angels that she was still alive and wanted to leave head-moving for the medics. Even though her chest wasn't moving....
"FUCK YOU," shouted Orwell. He had wanted to go with, "it was that dumb bitches fault" but decided against it. Didn't want to think about it. The accident wasn't his fault.
Biff moved towards him. Orwell held up his gun, like, higher. Orwell looked back and forth between Biff and his girl, looking actually at Eve's chest instead of her face. Orwell was leering. Eve clenched her jaw. Then she saw someone behind Orwell. She saw a hooded figure slowly and soundlessly rise to a standing position atop the stairway entrance, behind Orwell. Biff's face did not give away the fact that he saw a tall grey shape outlined against the slightly brighter glow of the light pollution in the sky. Eve's did, but Orwell, fortunately, still wasn't looking at her face.
"I called it in," gloated Orwell. That sounded pretty good, right? "I knew it was you, I just knew it. I dragged your dumb little light up her and look who I caught? Ninja my ass. Everyone is-"
"If you are going to shoot me," said Biff, "you'd better do it right now. This is your only chance." The gray figure dropped behind Orwell. Eve heard no sound. It was like the movement of an owl. Biff stepped forward.
Orwell shook the gun a tad and was about to say something but the hooded figures hands moved in a circular fashion and suddenly Orwell was choking on a wire that Biff and Eve didn't see. They stood there as Orwell choked and struggled, the hooded man maintaining his grip. Finally, Orwell passed out.
The man in the hood stepped over Orwell's body and tossed an encyclopedia-sized book at Biff's feat. It landed with a thud. The cover was plain, either black or dark brown--it was hard to tell under the orange glow of the road ninja signal. The front of the book had the title "The Art of Driving" embossed in four lines of large letters.
"'I've said all the right things, in exactly the right way.' I've made all the right moves," said the hooded figure, "but she's never, ever looked at me like that." He pulled his hood back. It was Dave.
Eve's heart stopped. Well, it didn't actually stop, but she could think of no other way to describe the shock.
Biff knelt down slowly, painfully, and retrieved the book. It was the third lost copy, now recovered. "You stole this one."
Dave shrugged. He still hadn't actually looked at Eve, at all. Eve felt something bad growing in the pit of her stomach.
"I didn't even give this one to you, and yet you have outdone everyone else."
"Even you," said Dave.
Biff didn't answer. He was considering the truth of Dave's words. Maybe ever since the pink rider's death-
"This building has been surrounded at the surface level." Dave interrupted Biff's musing. "Whatever hope you could have of stealth is lost." Dave tossed a set of keys at Biff. Biff caught them. "You're welcome to see what I've done. Maybe take her out for a good ole escape spin. She's on the B3 level, spot 23 golf." Dave turned to walk away. Then he turned back, "Oh, and there is an elevator on floor 45 in key mode. All the coppers will have to take the stairs. You'll sail right by them."
Eve saw Biff staring at Dave with some strange look of pride.
"Thanks," said Biff. Biff wanted to say more, but didn't know what.
Dave turned to go.
"Dave..." said Eve.
"You should let her fuck you," said Dave, turning back one last time. He still only looked at Biff. "I don't think many men get a chance to enter that paradise--you shouldn't blow yours."
Dave had, technically, called Eve the opposite of a whore, and complimented her at the same time, but the bitterness in his tone still stung her and made her feel like one.
Biff could not meet the comment with a response. "May the echoes of angels protect you--" an old religious saying in his family--was all he could say.
"I can offer you no such blessing. Evelyn loves you. For that, I'll never forgive you." Then Dave was gone. The doorway was empty, save for Oliver's not-actually-dead corpse.
"Time to go," said Biff. He looked over the side of the building. Eve followed suit. The height was dizzying. Below them, cop cars circled the building with their lights. Biff noticed it was only cop cars. No SUV-type minivans. Unknown to him, the police chief--or really the police commissioner, after an exorbitant number of reports of mercenaries improperly getting their guns off and after having every police deparment at sixes and sevens for this damn unnecessary response to what should have been an innocuous biker stunt, flipped his shit and ordered the arrest of all Greywater security personnel. He let his captains sort out the details of how to actually accomplish that, and told them to charge the 'bastards' with anything that would keep them off the streets for a while. Mayor Pennington had marched right down to his office, where he promptly threatened to put her in a cell and screamed at her with a red face.
Eve helped Biff lift road ninja signal. It was heavy. They had a lot of trouble getting it to the edge, and Eve felt a little vertigo. It was up there, though, on the ledge. Biff, without warning, gave it a sudden shove. He also gave a shout to warn the cops below. A road ninja does not murder. The spotlight fell many stories onto a cop car, and pretty much totaled it.
They road the elevator from the 45th floor in silence, Biff in pain, and Eve in a panic over Dave. Many emotions clouded her judgment0 then, and it is difficult to really describe any of them. Carby was outside, on the surface level, on his side. Orwell, thinking the bike was Biff's, had taken a bat to it and done a lot of superficial damage. Not a great night for Carby.
They arrived at the third basement level and walked among the cars. Biff approached slowly, like the father of an architect looking for his son's first building. The car--or the back of it--came into view. The rear end of a black 2007 Subaru Impreza WRX STI is not particularly elegant, or chaste. The bigass spoiler sticks out like a shopping cart handle, and while it does balance out the sleek look of the car, overall, where a BMW or like an Aston-Martin or something might evoke images of a bond girl in a sleek evening dress, the STI is more like a girl with medium-to-big boobs in a tight sports bra. She doesn't star in many movies, but she can haul ass, sugar.
Biff clicked the unlock. The black sports car lighted its flashers and chirped merrily. "Everyone who reads the book--they always use rice burners."
"Probably for the mileage," said Eve.
"And, well, the all-wheel drive is amazing, although it complicates drifting...." Biff's voice trailed off as he approached the door. He had not driven a...one of these...since Christine and the cliff.
Eve put her hand on the door. "I'm driving," she said, nodding at his leg.
Biff looked at her and then kissed her. Her mouth tasted like spearmint. His tasted like he'd eaten a meal three hours ago, but Eve didn't care. Biff pressed her against the car and kissed her.
They could have had sex there. They had time for it. Biff knew they had the time. Eve would have easily gone for it--her body was on fire for him again. Biff also knew his way around the back seat. However, whether they had sex then or not, no one seems to know, and Eve doesn't seem to think its anyone's business.
Biff sat in the passenger seat, Eve in the drivers. The dashboard had a raised part for the driver, you know, where the speedo and tach are...and the temp gauge, outside temp, oil, turbo...ok you get the picture. On the top right corner of the driver's portion of the dash, on the curve that slopes down over the radio, was a hidden panel. Biff found it because he knew to look for it. He pressed. A cover flipped up. On the inside of this cover was the subtle black outline of a squid.
"What's that?" asked Eve, as she started the car. It started with that familiar, happy sound that pretty much all Subarus make. The panel contained a switch all the way on the left called Arm, a dial with three settings, a switch called Smoke, a switch called Fire, and a switch called Detonate. The dial and the Detonate switch were not described in The Art of Driving. Dave had clearly surpassed the manual.
"Nothing." Biff closed the panel. "Just...don't hit anything." Biff was concerned about the destruct button.
"What?"
"This car...isn't made of metal. You can't bang other cars around like you can with a muscle car."
"I'll uh, keep that in mind," said Eve as she backed out of the space.
They made it to the garage exit, which was thankfully actually attached to a different building on the surface (they could thank Dave for that) without incident. However, the garage exit was installed with an annoying voice that said "CAUTION. CAUTION. VEHICLE EXITING." It drew the attention of the cops. Most didn't seem too concerned. They were just standing around talking about their poor buddies who got stuck taking the stairs. One of them waved for them to pull over.
Eve, anticipating that they would definitely not be pulling over, did the opposite of what Biff was about to tell her, and floored it. The car lurched forward, and then lurched forward again, swerving to the side because the wheel was still turned a tiny bit. Biff's hand flew to the wheel, steadying it with his hand on top of hers.
"This has a turbo. They're freaky little things," he said. He looked behind them. What cover they had was blown. Two, maybe three cars, pursued, and they had radios. "Take that street," said Biff. Biff directed her every move, and it reminded him of a time long ago when he had last taught the art. Jason had been quite different though. They reached a three lane avenue. "Stay behind and to the right of this car."
"What? We need to-"
"Those cars up there are blocking us. We have to wait for an opening but can't ride their ass. Stay here, this is a position of power."
"A what?"
"Its a position where--listen, sometimes its better to be behind."
"That's what she said," said Eve, grinning. She was scared, yes, and might end up in jail, sure, but she was damn sure gonna enjoy this. A hole broke in the line of cars, or more precisely, Biff saw that a hole was going to break in three or four moves, and directed Eve to make optimal use of the hole as soon as it appeared. Despite their best efforts, the police had a quick time catching up. Their lights and sirens tended to part traffic like it was two receding tides of water.
Biff got them to a long stretch of road that ended in a t-junction. I know, they were just in the central district, or whatever the hell I named. Biff is good like that. Biff found the secret panel with the differential braking controls that were most definitely not stock, and saw the button for the super high beam. "Its too bad you can't use this."
Eve grinned at him. "Don't be so sure, sugar. What you need, a 180?"
"Yes."
Eve flipped the right combination of switches and braked, spinning the car around. The reverse gear of the car could not be engaged at these speeds, so she just coasted. "Now wh-"
Biff pressed the super high beam switch. Incredibly highly powered bulbs that were installed next to the real headlights, and which were powered by capaciters that had been charging since Eve started the car, flashed on with an intensity approaching the strobes of a jet airplane, bathing the scene before them in a while light, like that of lightning. Seconds later, the bulbs burned out. Biff studied the vehicles in pursuit. They drifted...yes, they were stopping. "Turn back around." Eve did so. They drove. More cop cars found them. Biff continued to direct her calmly, ever instructing. "Every aggressive move you make has a cost; it gets you noticed. Remember: cops can't pull over what they can't see." Then later, "we don't endanger their lives unless they endanger ours. Remember, these cops have wives and families. A road ninja does not murder. Though, if they..." Biff cut a piece of the roof fabric, and then said: "Well, fuck me sideways."
"What is it?"
"Nothing. Turn there." They used every available move that could be done by someone that had no training for it, and which did not involve bumping into anything. They did shake the cops, many times, but the police helicopter still found them. "Shit."
"What now?" asked Eve.
Biff pointed. The bridge. They sped across it. "Forget about stealth. With a chopper, speed is our only ally." Eve dodged haphazardly between cars.
"Can we really outrun a helicopter?"
"Helos have to tip themselves to go forward, and their blades can only spin so fast, so..Yes." Then Biff listened to chatter with his cell phone. Then, "No."
"What?"
"No one can outrun radio waves. They have the highway. Left lane!" Eve swerved to the left lane. "Stay. Move to the right a little, straddle the line divider. Slow down. More. Slow down to 30. When we reach that building up there, you are going to break, hard, a little, and swung over on the concrete. Give gas when you hit the curb--ok here we go."
Eve swerved left onto the curb. Some kind of small tourist area where they could mount the foot bridge. There were pillars in their way, the kind that stop cars.
"Follow the pillars," said Biff. "There, yes, go between the two stands." How Biff knew about that path, Eve didn't even know. She coasted between them. "Straight," Biff was pointing now, directing her onto the bridge lanes going the other way. Biff glanced right, to the oncoming traffic. "Go go go."
They dropped back onto the highway. There was a ginormous tractor trailer right behind them, so close that its lights illuminated the car's insides from the rearview mirror. The driver slammed on his air brakes.
"Floor it," said Biff. Eve floored it, this time doing a better job of catching the wheel when that second burst of speed jerked the steering. She did her best with the shifter to keep up with the TAC needle as it raced to the red line again and again in every gear. Their side of the bridge folded under the other one, and they were temporarily hidden from view of the police helicopter. The chopper knew where they were going though. Seeking hidden ground was partly a reflex on Biff's part. It gave him time to think. Unfortunately, the only two--well, three--ways out of here were to hijack a car, or double back and drive against the current, which Eve definitely couldn't handle. Biff didn't want to hijack a car, either. There was no justification for it. That third option was something utterly ridiculous, like driving off a bridge and into the 45 degree (7.22 Celsius) water. "Do you...trust me?" asked Biff.
Eve glanced at him. "In a way...." She blushed. Hm...blushing...I don't know.... "I guess I do."
"How much fuel do you have?"
"Its between a quarter and half."
Probably not enough to run the helo out of fuel, assuming they could even play shadow games that long. They were low on equipment that Biff was willing to use. He had purposely kept no hiding places that could fit cars. There were few spots with any chance of ditching a helo in this area. Police response was increasing. Acrobatics were out of the question. "Turn right," said Biff, "after the bridge. The first exit on the right." He looked behind them. "And slow down to 60. Make that 45."
The speed limit was 60, but Eve obeyed. She felt childish watching people pass her, the angry, annoyed people that she had just blown by.
Biff made a phone call. "Hi--yes. I need you to drop it off somewhere else." Biff was arguing about something with the person on the other end. Eve assumed it was related to their rescue. Maybe a tractor trailer would gobble them up and hide them from the cops like in knight rider? Biff ended the call with "Listen, I will pay you double if you drop it off at the following address and wait there until she picks it up. Yeah, of the full price. Ok." He hung up.
"What was that?"
"Business." They turned off the highway after the bridge, taking a long ramp down to the surface streets of a waterfronted, semi-abandoned industrial area that divided the Mark from Trenchtown. The streets were mostly deserted, but he made her go slow. Two cruisers appeared on the on ramp behind them, their lights flashing the concrete around them in blues and reds. Biff studied their surroundings. Eve grew increasingly nervous.
"What are you doing?"
"Ssh...there. Stop dead center in that intersection. Diagonally. Point the car at that corner."
Eve could see police approaching the intersection from the other side. "Are you crazy?"
"Just do it! Trust me, neither of us will be caught tonight."
Eve swallowed at did as he asked.
"Leave the car running, e-brake on," said Biff as they rolled to a stop. "Stay very still." Biff opened the panel, the one with an outline of a squid on the inside, and then he held up a handgun. Eve didn't know he even had one. He brandished it at them, and tapped against the window glass of his door. The cops kept their distance, opening their doors, pointing their guns at them. They were shouting. Then he said, "Oh!" and pointed it at Eve, while still looking at the cops.
"WHAT THE FUCK?" Eve shrieked.
"Just buying time." Biff looked at her. She saw a new expression on his face. Maybe it was love. Maybe not. The gun made it hard to tell. "Also, making sure I'm the bad guy. If anyone asks, I forced you at gunpoint."
"What?"
"Say it."
"You...forced me at gunpoint?"
"Perfect. Don't give them any details. Don't talk to anyone, not even EMTs, if it comes to that. Lawyer up and all that."
More cops were arriving. The police chopper covered, keeping the spotlight on them. Eve looked around, scared, though not scared for her life. She saw the ring of police around them. She saw the water, reflecting the moonlight. She saw the spotlight on the hood of Dave's car. This was definitely an experience to remember.
Biff pointed, with the hand that wasn't holding the gun, and in a way the cops couldn't see. "Listen to me. Listen to me very carefully. This is where you are going to go. When I say go you are going to run, straight for that corner. You are going to run for ten steps..." Biff glanced at her legs, as if so make sure of something. "...and only ten steps. Then you are going to walk. Crawl, if you have to."
"I don't understand."
"You will. Tell me what you are going to do."
"Run ten steps, then walk."
"Where? Don't point."
Eve nodded where he told her.
"Good girl. Also, note the markings here on the ground. You may need them to find your way." Biff flicked the switched labeled Arm. "When you get there, walk to the next block. Whatever you do, just walk. Act like you were just down here, hanging out. Pretend you're deaf if you have to. Do you understand me."
"Yes. Yeah, uh, what are you doing?"
"Water based mist. At least, I hope its water based." Biff turned off the air conditioning. "Pop the trunk."
Eve looked at the cops with their guns pointed at them.
"They are aiming at me, not you. Pop the trunk. There are two levers behind your left foot. One of them is--aw hell just give both a yank."
Eve reached down slowly, scared of letting the cops see she was moving. Biff turned the dial next to the Arm button. It had three settings. One was labeled with a small circle. The next was labeled with a larger circle around a small circle. The last was labeled with three circles. Biff turned it to the three circles. Eve closed her eyes and pulled the levers.
The trunk and the gas cap popped open. The shots Eve was afraid of were never fired. The police were busy looking in the trunk for maybe a body they needed to rescue. What they saw instead was quite different.
Biff pressed the smoke button. There were many loud sounds similar to explosions. The most noticeable event for those inside the car was the hood popping up, so that smoke, ostensibly from the engine, could pour out unhindered. For people outside, it was the sight of something similar to rockets launching in the air. The rockets went a hundred feet in the air caused the police chopper to take an evasive action that would have been far too late had the rockets done anything other than explode into dust. Ashes and dust rained down on the intersection and behind it. From far away it looked like there was a giant white-ish grey dust ball in that corner of the city.
Had the road ninja's "former apprentices" and, you know, those other three guys they hung out with, seen it, they would have suspected something. However, they were already on their way home, jubilant with the success of their "mission" and with the awesome industrial music that was playing on the radio. Well, Snow Monkey listened to jazz. Fucking pilot.
The smoke settled in around them, making Eve think they were in a war scene from a movie. "Crack open your door a little," said Biff. Eve did so. Biff held up her sword. "Don't forget this." Eve smiled and took it. "Its about to get hot in here."
"What?"
"Don't touch anything, and be ready to kick your door open as soon as I shout the word." said Biff.
Eve put the sword between her legs and hugged herself in order to not touch anything. "What word?" she asked slyly.
"Not funny." Biff flipped the switch labeled Fire. They heard what sounded like giant supersoakers. "This is injecting a volatile liquid into the air which will combust as soon as something spark--"
BOOM. The sound was deafening. The car was engulfed in flames. Even felt the heat on her face. The fire began to dissipate almost as quickly as it came, though she couldn't see that it was continuing to burn upwards.
"GO!" Biff screamed at the top of his lungs and right at her. Eve's body filled, yet again, with adrenaline. She kicked. The door swung open, easily, and came back and hit her. She pushed it over. She ran and almost forgot to count her steps, going a couple extra steps at a run. She now understood everything. She walked, slow, trying to stay soundless. The air was heavy with smoke, but the smoke was thinning. She almost ran straight into the front of a cop car, and realized she was slightly off course. She heard someone to her left, crouched down, and started crawling on one hand and two knees, cradling her sword with the other.
Biff was still in the car, furiously wiping every nearby surface free of fingerprints. If there was DNA in the backseat, he didn't mention--well thats not really a clue if they--nevermind. The final switch was fairly obvious: Detonate. There was a number above it: 12. Well, it definitely wasn't minutes. Biff opened his door, reviewed his route, and flipped the switch. There was a loud beeping sound that started immediately. He ran. He executed his route perfect, leaping over some kind of low wall just before the explosion. This secondary explosion was not as loud or theatric as the first, but there were satisfying crunching sounds as pieces of the car flew into things. Not, he hoped, into any of the cops. Hopefully they had the sense to stay behind their cars.
Biff ambled away, slowly, saying to himself:
gone is the rider, on his chariot of fire
silent is the horn that blew...
Two blocks away, a crowd gathered, partly because these guys with a truck and a trailer had just unloaded this totally rocking pink sportbike that said Aprilla on the fairing, and partly because of the smoke that extended more than two blocks in every direction. And the kickass explosions.
They talked excitedly amongst themselves, many of them kids (by our reckoning), some high school, some college, some yuppies, some old people. It was these people that caught a glimpse of someone in the cloud of dust as falling ash. Someone pink. They fell silent as she emerged, tall, terrible, beautiful. She had a fucking sword drawn.
Evelyn's hair was wild about her, but her cheeks and suit were crisp and remarkably clean. After all of the events of that day she hadn't actually fallen or gotten dirty. There was plenty of sweat, yes, but that didn't show through the suit. She was, quite simply, breathtaking. A terrible angel.
Eve walked out of the smoke and ash and saw the crowd. She knew what Biff had done, what he had left her, the moment she saw that pink motorcycle. She wondered when she would see him again, not knowing that in a few days Biff would steal Carby away from the impound lot and those hot ducatis and take the road under the mountain. One of the guys waiting there with the bike walked up to her and handed her two keys, and some slips of paper. Eve smiled at him, knowing full well where is eyes went when she unzipped her suit part way, and tucked the papers inside.
The bike was waiting for her on its side stand. Eve mounted it, started it, and tucked the sword between her right leg and the fairing. Then she rode away into the night, with all eyes on her ass.
Moving up to such a larger engine should be done with care. Eve took it easy, and didn't seem to have any problems. Not everyone, perhaps not even many, name their bike. I don't know. What I do know is that Eve named hers. She thought about the name the entire way home. While she didn't decide on the exact name then, of one thing she was certain:
This bike...this bike was a she.
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