Author's Note: Alrighty folks, originally Redesigning Sanity was going to be the story I entered in a convention on Muse Bunny, but it has really been on a roll for me, and I love writing it too much to wait 11 months to finish it. So Garage Grease and Face Paint came to be, in esactly 3 hours of sitting infront of a computer. Since it is part of the convention, I will be posting a chapter every month, with a min of 2500 words. It will end next August, but I really appreciate the reviews, since I am a review monger and love hearing from my readers. So please read and review, I won't be forgetting this story any time soon.
Chapter One: Breaking Glass, Breaking Smiles
Word Count: 2923
The sound of a breaking window, and the tinkling of the glass shards as they hit the concrete floor of her garage woke Kitrina Saunders up. Throwing the old duvet off her all ready dressed body, Kit reached for the ready shot gun stationed at her bedside. One could never be too careful in Gotham City, especially her side of the town.
She had lived on the streets most of her life, switching through foster families like one changes underwear. Her last foster family had been a pyro-tech couple, who she generally liked, mainly because they had understood her and stayed with her longer then others had. They had put her through courses in what one would call, learning how to blow things up for a living, and electrifying houses. At least that was what Kit called it.
Opening the loosely hinged door, which had been in need of fixing for 2 years now, Kit's suspicious brown eyes swept through the dark garage. No alarm bells were ringing, so the intruder had been smart enough to cut the wires. Silence reigned as she crouched still as a statue behind an old Ford. Kit waited for it, the telltale sound.
Crunch.
The shoe of her intruder had just taken a step onto the fallen glass. The stupidest move that was ever made by amateur thieves.
Rising above the hood of the truck, she shot off a single bullet in the direction the noise had come from. Curses and the sound of a body falling back against something greeted her. Standing straight, Kit reached out a hand to flick the switch, flooding her grease and gasoline smelling garage with light.
There he was.
Studying his bleeding form for a moment, she concluded that he was in his late teens, most likely around eighteen, with scraggly blond hair, and wearing a jumble of mix matched clothes. The navy tee shirt he wore bore a hole in sleeve and a stretching dark circle surrounding it. Dirty, hole kneed jeans and a worn out pair of Wal-Mart runners completed the bum look, and Kit knew his motives in an instant.
"Thinking about stealing from me?" Kit asked coldly, standing over his hunched form, holding the gun threateningly in her hands.
She knew that most of her tools could be sold for a fair price, same with some of the vehicles what were brought in. She had a flashy little Ferrari in for a tune up right now, and it was because of idiots like this, that she took the tires off all her vehicles before heading in for the night.
"Answer!" She growled, readying the gun for another shot, the shell falling to the ground.
A hoarse laugh came from him as he raised his eyes to stare into hers. They were dark blue, and for a moment Kit almost thought they were black. It startled her that he would laugh in a situation like this, and she found it was undermining her authority in her own shop.
Reaching down she wrapped a hand around his elbow, pulling the young man to his feet. Weak giggles were drifting from him, filling the building with their mocking sound. She pushed him over into her office. Closing the door firmly behind the two, Kit motioned for him to sit on the cot where she had previously been slumbering in.
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The office was almost a grey blue in colour and contained a scratched desk covered in papers and a computer screen sitting precariously on top. The wireless keyboard had been tossed unceremoniously onto the mountains of paper next to a abandoned cup of what he guessed was coffee. Posters and pictures of various sport car models were tacked to the wall in an orderly way. A open binder of real life photographs showed off every car she had worked on, and a single grinning photo was placed on top. It portrayed a teenage girl in baggy pants, crop top, waving a wrench and covered in patches of grease, the expression on her face however showed she didn't care about the grim on her, the carefree grin and happiness in her eyes proved that.
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Resting the shotgun carefully on her jumbled desk, she reached into a open drawer for the battered first aid kit. He watched her, still chuckling to himself, while she threaded a sterilized needle and locked his own fingers together.
"Wanna hear a joke?" He asked.
A short answered no was returned to him, and his face fell for a moment.
"You gotta good shot yah know? Just skimmed my arm, you can like, I dunno. Throw me out now?"
The swift glare from her silenced him, and she brought out a knife, which caused a apprehensive look to enter his eyes. Ignoring the look, Kit sawed off his sleeve to get better access to the wound. It was normal for her to clean up after her little misfires. Kit didn't need him going to the cops, it was bad enough that she was suspected of being a major firearms dealer.
"Why did you break in?" She asked, cleaning the wound with some alcohol. Kit earned a hiss for her efforts before he muttered darkly, "Needed the money."
"For what? You look like a smart kid, young enough to be in school still. Too young to be playing with the sharks yet, though I have seen some punks that ought to still be in middle school trading drugs on the side of the road with some shifty folk," Kit replied calmly, starting the first stitch, drawing the needle through his pale skin slowly.
"Owe some people, simply as that, and you don't need know any more," he snapped at her, tensing the muscles in his arm.
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He didn't like her questions, not one bit. They were too personal, and he wasn't sure if she would go to the cops. Dealing with mobs, and small time criminals, made him leery of anyone interested in him.
The last time he had allowed anyone in, they had betrayed his trust, or at least what trust he had left. Money wasn't a constant thing in his life, nor was a steady line of work. True he could go work in some fast food restaurant, but he was better then that.
When he had snapped at the woman sewing him back together, he made the mistake of tensing up, causing a shot of pain to race up his arm. A mask was in place, and he ignored the stabbing throb from the bullet wound the little bit of a thing had given him.
For that was what she was. His first look at her was in shadows, and she could have been taken for some little home keeper, perhaps a wife to a business man. Second glance however, showed a far more dangerous person. The cold, calculating look was fixated in her brown eyes, and her stance was one he knew well. She was someone who had gone through the rough spots and grown better for it.
The woman wore beige cargo pants, a red tank top, and all of it looked like it had been stained with grease at one time or another. Straight, dark hair was pulled up in a rough ponytail and the ruffled look of her clothing and faded smudge of makeup on her face indicated she had been sleeping when the window had broke.
Jake was distracted from his thoughts when she spoke again.
"Fair enough, kid, I don't need to know any more." She had tied up the last stitch and was putting away the needle and thread.
Looking over her handy work, he was pleased to see a neat set of stitches knitting the skin together. Rustling came from Kit's direction as she rummaged through a old box, puling out a faded, but usable black shirt.
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"Here kid, you'll need this." She tossed him the old shirt. It had belonged to some old boyfriend of hers, and Kit had almost forgotten about it till now, when she had thought about replacing the smelly shirt he wore.
Pulling the dark coloured and rather ripped shirt over his head and off, Kit examined him critically. His pale body was thin, but rippled with muscle, and the evidence of knife wounds. A long slash traced it's way across his chest and another one made a lone line along his abdomen.
"What do you do kid?" Kit asked curiously, she had an inkling of the kind of work he was into.
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The cool air in her converted office hit his skin, and goose bumps played their way along his arms, making the hair rise. Her questions bothered him, but this one was realistic. She might be looking for someone to be a hit man, or to make a deal for her. He had found that garage owners weren't always fixing up old cars, they had their own business in the back, that had nothing to do with Bob's Auto or Joe's Quick Fixer.
The sign outside had simply stated KISS Auto, repairs and tune ups. What the KISS stood for was beyond him.
"Odd jobs, whatever I can get." Jake shrugged, before yanking the old, but thankfully cleaner shirt over his blond head and then shot her a glance, "So what does KISS stand for?"
A smirk played on her features as she sat down in the beat up leather chair. For a old chair, it was comfortable and no matter how much money she made, Kit loved this chair. She had found it in a old pawn shop when she had first opened her garage, paying a grand total of 15 for it.
"Hmmm, KISS? Well it's my name. Kitrina Isobel Samantha Saunders. To be honest, I hated my name, what person drops their kid off at the foster center with two middle names? Especially when they have already given the kid some stuck up, overly uptown name to begin with?" Kit shook her head ruefully, "The only good thing was the initials, which I used when I bought this crap assed place. It has come a long ways though, from being some junk dealership to a working garage."
Pulling out a small automatic handgun from the same drawer as her first aid bag, Kit caressed the handle thoughtfully for a moment.
She locked eyes with him, "Which is why no one steals off Kit Saunders. Not mob bosses or big time criminals. No, they know better, much better. But you, you dared to. Despite being a nobody you broke in. Who do you think you are?"
"Jake. Listen lady, all I needed was the money, I owe some debts and they told me if I could get in here, I would be able to pay off what I owe." Jake shifted nervously on her cot, ready to beat it out of the building any second now.
Kit stood, placed the gun down and said, "Get up, your leaving."
He responded quickly, making his way out the door, followed closely by the garage owner. A quick glance down a narrow hallway to his right showed off a bathroom and a door to what he presumed was the back room. Jake honestly didn't think she legally owned all those guns, or at least had permits for half of them.
They had reached the car entrance, and Kit pulled on the chain, drawing the large garage door upwards, enough so that the boy could easily walk out.
Splashes of rain hit them and the light from inside sneaked out to shed itself on the wet pavement. Jake's dark eyes looked out, searching for something. She watched him steadily, as he relaxed an inch and stepped out into the downpour.
As he was walking away, Kit called out. "Come through the front door next time, and stay out of trouble!"
He turned to acknowledge her, and she threw a Swiss army knife out, skidding through the puddles to land at his feet. Jake kneeled down and picked it up, before straightening and looking for the mechanic again. She had already closed the door, cutting off the almost comforting source of light.
Jake pocketed the weapon, and hunched his shoulders against the rain. Not that it would do much, he was almost soaked to the bone already.
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Kit watched from the window of her garage as he took the knife and disappeared into the darkness. She didn't know it but that wouldn't be the last time she saw the boy named Jake.
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As he entered his scanty old apartment, one he could barely afford to keep, despite how cheap the rent was, Jake received a stunning blow to his stomach. Bent over, gasping for breath, he felt more punches land firmly on his back and sides. Falling to the ground, Jake wheezed out his pain, clutching his arms around his sore stomach in hopes of protecting himself.
"Did you get the money, freak?" Came the cold voice of Peter Shim, the man he had been borrowing money from.
"I promise-" A kick landed on him, and Jake gasped in pain.
"I don't care for promises, freak."
Jake's eyes fluttered as he tried to concentrate, his vision was coming in and out of focus and finally the towering figure of Pete came into view.
The man was built like a barge, wide, but without a ounce of fat on him. Street folk said he used to be some sort of body guard before he killed his employer and took off with a fair amount of money. Pete was a bit of a drug dealer, and owned a chain of hair salons, strange as that was for a big guy like him. He wore tailored suits, with price tags Jake couldn't even dream of.
How the golden haired boy had come to get in the bad books of Pete was when Jake started borrowing money. Now interest on the black market was by far higher then the interest you would find in a bank. It also didn't have any insurance and the due date kept changing. If Pete wanted the money, and it was wanted, not needed, for Pete never needed money, you got it for him. By any means.
"I got shot at by-" Jake started as he dragged himself upright, leaning his beaten body haphazardly on some unopened boxes.
With a flick of his wrist, Pete motioned for his men to search the kid. They dragged patted him down and upon finding the knife, they left him and handed it to their boss. The smooth talking man flicked open the blade and knelt down beside the boy.
"Shot at, huh? Why aren't yah dead? The garage owner of KISS doesn't take kindly to intruders, and you were one dumb clown to listen to us. You know, freak, it wasn't about the money, no, not at all. It was about the message, and now we're going to give a message to you."
Jake's mind was running wildly, what were they going to do to him?
The two bodyguard like henchmen held Jake down as fear flooded the boy's eyes. His struggles, weak at first became more frantic as Pete brought the knife closer to his face.
"You know, for a young clown like you, you are far too serious? So freak, put a smile on that face for Uncle Pete. No? Well then, why so serious?"
The knife closed in, and the older man grabbed Jake's face, holding him still. He could feel the cold metal enter his mouth and blinding pain take over his senses, dulling them as it ripped up the side of his face.
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Laughter was on Pete's lips as he wiped the blood off the blade with a old rag he had found in the kid's dumpy kitchen. Marcus, his bodyguard had stitched the boy up roughly, and Pete admired his work. A stretching smile was now carved into the kid's face, making him more of a clown then he knew. Blood was still seeping from the wound and had been pouring it's way down from the initial cuts. After he had finished with the first half of the smile, Jake had passed out from the pain, quite to the disappointment of Pete's men.
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Jake opened his eyes slowly, throbbing pain bursting on his cheeks, in hot bubbles. All he could think about was what they had done to him, and seeing them there, sitting in his kitchen, playing poker, broiled his blood. His hand reached in the box behind him for the heavy crowbar.
Rage burned in his eyes as he slowly stood, hunched over.
"Hey look, the clown is awake," Marcus said, standing up, pushing his chair back, "What do you think you are going do with that, freak?"
Pete was shocked when he heard the voice coming from the usually goofy looking kid. It was gruff, dark and dangerous. The kind of voices people associate with things you don't want to run into in a back ally at midnight.
"I am not-" The boy started, paused and continued, "Not a freak."
Raising the crowbar in his hand, Jake's mind was flooded with red, and the screams from the three men before him as he murdered them, had no effect. The only thing they seemed to do was urge the young man onward, though inside it was slowly, but surely unscrewing every bit of sanity the boy named Jake had left.