Author's Note
It's recommended you listen to the album and prequel (radio series) before reading this, as it contains several references to both. The prequel can be found here ( site/mammothcitymessengers/radioseries) and the album can be found on places like iTunes and YouTube.
This was originally written circa 2007 and is being edited. Any and all suggestions are encouraged and appreciated.
Warning: This is a work centered around a female/female pairing and contains homophobia, mentions of Christianity, sinning and the like, PTSD/trauma, CSA, and sexual themes. Rating will change as the story updates and these topics become more apparent.
Mammoth City Messengers and all related characters © Forefront Records. All rights reserved.
Taylor Hudson remembers when she was a teenager.
Oh, how big, how bright, how beautiful the world seemed. And she'd been determined to go out, break through the barriers of claustrophobic Mammoth City (well, it's a major city, but in any thirteen-year-old's eyes it's small) and save it. She'd been filled with hope and promise, had big dreams of rescuing wildlife and reversing deforestation. And—finally—she was going to put an end to corrupt billionaire Evel Beetle's urbanization of her hometown and what he planned to be the whole world. (She bites back a grimace, thinking back to his leer and chiseled features. How can anyone trust that man?)
The world was her oyster, and she was going to go fishing. She was going to be the change this Earth needed. She was going to be a hero, of sorts.
Well, that has yet to come into play. Taylor sighs, not bothering to straighten her back as she fumbles her keys and collapses into her car. She's one of the last few still in the parking lot. Or, wait—she glances past the windshield, does an ocular sweep of the area. She is the last one here.
Walking into environmental engineering, she knew she was going to face challenges and difficulties along the way. She just didn't think bankruptcy was going to be one of them. She lets her head go limp, falling against the driver's side window with a thump.
It's her own fault, she supposes: she took the role of CEO to her head, thinking she had all the money in the world and could afford everything she did. That had been her problem since junior high; she was too impulsive, too optimistic. And, when this news makes headlines, the biggest joke of 2013. She should've seen this coming. The signs were all there: she was starting to have to lay off workers, cut corners on projects, sell more than she bought, and rip out her hair when trying to make withdrawals. Her childhood best friend come executive assistant Jill had warned her several times about cards being declined and orders failing to be put through. Her obstinacy pushed through, though, and she refused to admit that maybe, just maybe, this dream wasn't meant to be.
Perhaps she's getting too into her defeat. Obviously a single failure doesn't mean her entire life is ruined. What's that saying again? When God closes one door, He opens a window?
It harmonizes with her, but that doesn't mean she isn't going to sulk for a little while.
·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·
Here's the thing: Taylor doesn't drink.
In her eyes, drinking is debauchery and a sin. She took an oath to abstinence from a very young age. She used to hide and pour her father's beer cans down the sink drain, told on her older brothers when she found alcohol in their rooms, and never attended any wild parties. She has a clean slate and an even cleaner liver.
So why does she find herself standing in front of a bar now?
Her lips part, revealing her teeth as she remains unmoving. Her fists clench and unravel, blue eyes darting every which way, absorbing the atmosphere. She probably looks like an idiot, smack in the middle of the terrace staring at the big neon sign. She draws in a breath, her feet carrying her forward without her telling them to, body on autopilot.
Taylor's eyebrows raise once she's inside. It's mellow, considering the time of day; a bit crowded, but nothing she can't handle. People are either drinking or packed around the television sets, cheering at a football game. The old-fashioned wooden walls and dim lighting make it almost cozy. Silently, she seats herself at the bar. She feels her bun falling out of her hair and decides to pull it out altogether, shaking out her tresses. She hopes that didn't call attention to herself, or worse, look like she was trying to be tempting. But God, it feels good to let it loose.
She sits there, her only indication of life being her legs crossing and uncrossing. The surrounding chatter is muffled by the blood roaring in her ears, and all too quickly she's out of place. She's not sure what she's to drink—one side wants their hardest, but the other, more religious side wants plain water. She figures walking into a bar alone was enough to veer her onto the highway to Hell. This was a mistake. She should just leave.
She's about to slither off the stool before she feels a hand tap her shoulder. A twinge of fear rips through her body before she freezes, expecting it to be some sleazy stranger. Against her better judgement, she turns, surprised to find a familiar build and sun-kissed skin. His face is heart-shaped and narrow, and his messy reddish-brown hair makes a name jump to the tip of her tongue. It can't be...
The two lock tired eyes. Hers widen when her suspicion rings true, and he's equally as astonished—has been for a while now.
"Taylor?" he asks.
"Mason?" Taylor returns, blinking. "What are you doing here?"
Mason had been her friend from junior high—and right around tenth grade was when awkwardness hit. The two began dating, not because they were in love but because they were both in denial with themselves (he's bisexual and she…well…she's not sure, but she's liked a girl for a long time). There might've been some feelings after a while, she'll admit that, but eventually they just stopped. It wasn't working. And since he became famous, the distance between them only grew. Now? She can't believe he pulled her aside.
He gets over his shock pretty quickly, it showing as his muscles relax and he shrugs. "We're off-season until August. Our last game was in Nashville, and I decided to come back home and see everyone."
Right. Mason had been star of the Mammoth City Soccer Beetles practically since birth. The team has been in the news, and she reads the news, so it shouldn't have been such a surprise running into him.
He continues talking. "What about you? I mean, I know you run that eco company thing here and all, but a bar doesn't really seem like your scene."
"Ran," she corrects grimly. He orders a glass of rum while keeping his focus on her, prompting her to continue.
"We went bankrupt. Just found out a few hours ago. Everyone and everything is gone." Taylor frowns, looks down, traces a circle of water left from a glass beforehand. She guesses her tone makes it sound like that's the reason she's here, because he gives her a sad look. Her mind wanders, bringing her back to the image of her company burned in her mind: boxes packed, dying plants, an empty building.
"That sucks. I'm sorry," he says, as though it fixes anything. She knows he means well, but her mood is still dampened.
The bartender asks if she wants anything, and after mulling it over, orders a serving of French fries. She goes to pull out her wallet, but Mason dismisses her with a shake of his hand, insisting it's on him.
"Mason, I can't—"
"You've had a shit day. It's cool." She winces at his profanity, but nonetheless lets him pay.
"How's the gang?" he wants to know once Taylor had choked down a few fries. They're not salty enough and somewhat soggy, but she's too passive to complain.
"I haven't really been keeping touch." She pushes the plate from one hand to the other and back again. "I've been too busy with the company. Last time I checked, Deejay's still a DJ and Junior still lives in Moss's basement."
Mason laughs at this. "Sounds about right. And Isabella's still a fashion designer." He perks up, as if being reminded of something. "Oh! She texted me last night; she's coming back here tomorrow."
While he pauses to sip his drink, she stiffens at the mention of Isabella's name. He made that announcement so casually, as though that girl wasn't the reason Taylor was the one-half of their forced relationship, or why she'd spent her days either confused beyond belief or crying, clutching her cross necklace to her chest.
Isabella Ruiz: professional fashion designer, model, and mindscrew heart-wrencher, at least in Taylor's case. Her mind fights to gain a most recent image of the woman, settling on one engraved in its darkest corners, the same one from a magazine cover in a store window months ago: form-fitting maroon t-shirt, white oversized knit cardigan, blue jeans that hug her hips. She's grown out her hair over the years, it having reached her shoulders, and applies makeup heavier than her seventh-grade counterpart. Taylor thinks back to the last she heard of her voice, its sweet and soft tang interwoven along her bilingual tongue.
Her thoughts are shattered when Mason speaks again. "She also said she misses you. You two haven't talked much since she moved and she's looking forward to seeing you again."
His right eyebrow slants sympathetically. He knows.
She feels sick now, and neglects the rest of her fries. "She misses me?" Her brain wants to cumulate more memories, more Kodak prints and VHS tapes she thought she'd buried six feet under long ago. She tries to focus on Mason again.
"Yeah," he says, quiet, probably remembering being on the other end of a pubescent Taylor sobbing into her Danger Hiptop at three in the morning.
"Does she…you know, did you…tell her?"
"Of course not." He swirls his rum absentmindedly. "But I did give her your number. Queen's orders," he adds, poking a little fun at Isabella's haughtiness. The girl was incredibly kind and down-to-earth, but she tended to recite her entire family line should someone fail to recognize her. She also usually got what she wanted when she wanted it.
At that she groans, rubs her temples. The one person she had to fall in love with and be unable to let go of is a girl, who's coming to Mammoth City tomorrow, and has her phone number. If she sees her in person again there's no telling what will become of her. Finding out her company's gone bankrupt and her longtime sinful flame is visiting in the same night? She feels content to throw herself into oncoming traffic.
Maybe it won't be so bad. She's likely just overthinking it like she does everything.
Mason downs the last of his drink, not looking the least bit affected, at least in her eyes. She finally decides to let him be, swiveling onto her feet. "I think I'll be going."
"Okay. Text me if you need anything—you still have my number, right?"
"Provided you haven't changed it," Taylor replies matter-of-factly.
"Cool. And hey." He turns in his seat to grasp both of her shoulders—given her tallish height relative to his position, it's not too much of a strain on him. "Take care of yourself, alright?"
Taylor nods.
·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·
hola sistahh
Maybe it's the characteristic lowercase lettering, maybe it's the casual Spanish. Either way, Taylor knows it's Isabella.
She waits a while to answer, blinking hard, as if this is all a dream and her message will disappear when she opens her eyes.
Hey
It's simple, it's lame, but it's all she had.
this is taylor rite? its isabella! :)
what time is it where u r?
Isabella's perky over text, which doesn't really surprise her. She glances at the time on her phone.
10:41 PM
oh ya same here. im in chicago rn n will b in mam city by tmrw morning! i cant wait 2 c u!
She doubts that third sentence, considering how she looks right now: greasy blonde hair splayed over her pillow, sickly pale skin, stress lines encompassing her hooded eyes, chin probably folding in on itself.
so hows ur group of tree hugging creeps? ;)
Taylor tries not to take the winky face to heart. It's difficult. And now she's sad again.
Went bankrupt. Just found out today
oh…. :(((
hey i mean if u want i can give u a loan
Her sleepy eyelids open a bit wider at this. Her dejected and desperate state wants to accept hastily, but she can't. It's over. Besides, she's sure she'd be unable to pay her back.
No, it's fine. Thanks though.
oh ok
so where shld we meet
Huh?
when i come tmrw imbécil!
do u wanna meet ur plc or ?
Oh. Umm sure
Isabella's going to be in her home. With her.
Swallowing, she sends the address to her apartment, mistyping it three times beforehand. Her fingers shake and her nerves fray; she feels as though she's about to be judged somehow.
genial! ill b there
ill let u sleep now. c u then querida. imy
Taylor lets her phone fall back against her stomach and shut off from inactivity, too drained to turn it off herself. She's anxious and relieved all the same, trembling, trying to quell her breathing. Isabella's pulling at something in her chest, pulling it taut and tight and cutting off her circulatory system. Just like she had when they were thirteen.
She feels cold, and buries herself beneath her blankets.