This is my first story. It is loosely inspired by Samurai Deeper Kyo, but the resemblance ends there. This is the first chapter of many, but I wanted to see what people thought of it before posting all of it here, so please review so I can see if it is worth my time to continue or not.
PS. I wasn't particularly pleased with this chapter, it gets more interesting (in my opinion) in the next few chapters, so please continue reading before formulating your thoughts.
As always, I do not own Samurai Deeper Kyo.
Chapter one
Over the forest road, through the middle of what felt like a primordial Earth, ran a Ducati motorcycle, dangerously close to the maximum speed for the current weather conditions. It was dark out, probably early morning or late night. Most people still awake would debate over whether they could return to sleep for a few more hours or would be lying awake, feeling guilty with whatever personal secrets creep into people's minds at that hour. But the rider skirting the hillsides and flying over the small creeks did not ponder matters of sleep or guilt. His focus was on the white fog lines of the deserted back road; besides, his thoughts never showed much of an allegiance to his conscious, making others wonder if he had one at all. But it was good like that; it had been desirable.
The trees that grew in thick patches, hovering around and crowding the numerous creeks, were gently swayed by the wind, but otherwise it was a calm night. There was nothing, therefore, to distract the world from the great crash that occurred when the rider suddenly misjudged a bend in the road. The turn was far sharper than it had looked, and the fog lines had blurred in his sight, so he had attempted to turn to the right too late and the bike ended up skidding out from beneath him. As it slid, his right side made contact with ground, and he was pulled off the bike, which continued to slide a good many more feet. Had anyone been present to witness the accident, they would have sworn that the rider would have been skinned entirely to the bone, but instead the rider rolled onto his back, where he proceeded to remove his full coverage black helmet with both hands, revealing, for the first time in several hours, his face to the world. After taking off his helmet, his hands held it against his chest for a few minutes while he took in quick, shallow breaths that hung in the cold air when they exited his mouth.
Slowly, pushing up on his elbows, and then leaning onto his hands, he moved into a sitting position with his legs stretched out in front of him. After resting another moment, his head hanging back as if he were looking up at the sky, the rider shifted his weight to his left side, pushing himself up to stand. His right knee and hip hurt the worst, since he had worn only a pair of blue jeans, and they were not exactly the most tear resistant clothing, but it could have been worse. While his shoulder had also taken a good beating in the fall, it was protected from the well-worn road by his thick leather biker's jacket, which, to match his helmet, t-shirt, and leather doc martins, was also black. It was a good color for him; it matched his hair and his expressions most of the time as well. As he slowly stalked his way towards his bike, much in the same manner that one might approach a nemesis you were about to call out to a duel, he kept an air of composure that one would never have thought possible after such an accident. Upon reaching the bike, he bent down to take the handlebars, which he pulled up on to try to get the bike standing upright again. It was easy enough, since it was light. It was a racing bike after all. As he stared at it, there didn't appear to be too much damage, but it was still scraped up enough for him to mutter a "shit" beneath his breath. In the next town, village, burg, whatnot, he would have to track down a garage and make sure it really was ok. Right now in the dark, there was little to do but push on. He had his reasons to keep moving. He was on the run after all.