Mmm. I'm starting to see parallel lines of this with Sky, ack. Oh well. I planned this to epic anyway, and as you can see, things aren't working out. It's just not...Big enough, for some reason. Doesn't feel grand and massive enough. Hmm...

Btw, having exams. Sorry for the long overdue update. :x

Nine : THIS BEAST IS SEXY

-

Like any scientist would tell you – the velocity of a stationary object is zero.

The 1-5 N is, according to google – is exactly 119 miles long, subject to change depending on what kind of eyes you have, and what kind of measuring tapes you had used to line the length of it. It takes a total of 2 hours to cross by car and 2 hours 50 minutes in traffic, also subject to change depending on weather.

At zero miles traversed though – the weather was Nancy-fine – and the bike's parked beside a gas out at the sides of San Diego, where civilization is slowly retreating in the face of deserts and harsh sand. This is where the house ends, the city ends, and the gas stations start to mushroom one by one on the road. It's almost uniform in it's placement – one every time you're just about out of gas and desperate for more, and if the man who's driving the bike knows lesser, he would call it a conspiracy.

At twelve in the afternoon, the bike kick starts with a roar and a choke of the most mechanical sort. It's been traversing a long time, ya see, and it ain't so happy to be dragged another hundred miles without an autoshop to wank some steam off. It kicked start anyway , and at twelve in the afternoon, two days after the cardboard boxes exchanged hands, the man is rolling down 1-5 N like fury incarnate.

Wheels scorched the ground, and they move fast because if they move slow, the whole damned thing will overheat. It rolled, first at the speed of 10 an hour, then breaking into 20 an hour – and as the station disappeared behind the horizon with a deflating pop of moneysucking tentacles being pulled off, it sped up all the way until the meter pointed to 50 instead of 0. The bitch roared and whined at being kicked up into that kind of speed, and if the road had been more populated, doubtless the man would have crash into something and ended up in a ditch with his neck broken.

The roads were clean though – at 12 in the afternoon with the sun showing it's muscles, no one wants to travel. There's a whole backlog of people stuck in the station and the one bed and breakfast down the road, hoping for the sun to show some mercy – and the road is clear for the man to step on it and blow pass the signs. The signs all show him the same thing : 70, but they could have been showing him BIG PISS for all he cared – signs were for faggots and not big shits like him.

16 miles down the road, the bike starts showing him things. No, it ain't things in his mind – the sun's hot enough to burn the top of his head off, even through the helmet. It's like a slow simmer with a regurgitating heater, but it wasn't enough to cloud his brains with hallucinations. The side-view mirror he stuck onto his bike with tape and cello weren't the best shiny sticks on Earth, but they do their job – and both of them agreed, someone was tailing them.

"Huh," He grunted.

From behind came the guys – and the man wasn't sure if they were Hammond's harpoons or the road's hammers. It could be Hammond, sending down his boys from S.D to take the shark down before he can speeda-speeda all the way to L.A and escape his net. Hammond doesn't give flying piss if the man's caught or not, or for the matter, if he's guilty of half the things being said about him. All he cares about is that the next time his boss comes around, he'll be serving them shark fins of the most metaphorical kind.

Those men were on bikes of their own, pretty badass ones that always did look too heavy to him. They look like they could be lugging cargo down in the ports, and ain't in the business of chasing people down. Appearances lie though – and two of the white bikes caught up to him at 25 miles. The man threw his head back and laughed loudly at them, like they were his beer and peanut buddies he happened to meet on the deserted highway to nowhere.

"Hey you boys! You guys down from the Ham?"

His voice is nearly drowned out by the sound of the wind rushing in his face. He hadn't bothered with anything to cover his face with, and even at 50, there were occasional sands and grit and what not that flew at him. The men chasing him didn't respond to his remark, only dogging him side by side persistently. Dancers to their sugar parade.

Their silence told them what he needed to know : If they had been your usual speed polices, they would be shouting out his rights over the wind by now, along with miserable pleadings for him to SIR JUST GET THE FUCK OFF THE ROAD SO WE CAN SUMMONS YOU PLEASE and then he'll pay them some money and they'll all go home to their wives and kids. These men weren't different in looks – but they were different in demeanour – only staring back at him with those scary kind of stone-face you see in MIB or movies where the aliens come outta the man's stomach, instead of you know, more appropriate places.

A tiny fist pounded in the man's back, and it told him all he needed to know. He turned his head around enough to stare at the kid behind him.

"'sup?"

"Mr. Hammond!" The kid roared back. His own voice sounded louder even than the man's since he was shielded by him. That's something he's gotta rectify later – maybe have a shouting match with the kid just to prove that baby? He's got the louder voice. The kid doesn't look amused though, only slamming his fist into his back.

"Go! Quicker!"

"Wrong term!" He shouted back. "It's callled...BURN!"

With a loud whoop, he twisted both accelerators. If it had been sponge, it would have broken off at first contact alone. It's a well-connected piece of sponge though, and the bike lurch into motion with another one of those mechanical chokes.

Now the man's bike ain't the finest piece of shit on Earth, but as he would put it – it's a damned fine piece of shit either way. It's blue, it's black – and if those colours aren't cool enough for your dining's pleasure, then fuck, they're proof of how much they've been through eh? The thing's nothing special – and in a ram-a-bam-bam fight with one of those state-issued white things, there'll be nothing left of it but the handlebars to prove it exist – but because it's lighter than the state issues, it went faster too.

His bike cut across theirs, whom had been hovering in indecision slightly ahead of his. These weren't well-trained pooches, that's for sure. The man's seen better poochies than these, though those were usually available only exclusively in the L.A district. These guy don't even have any idea what they're doing – and he caught the both of them by surprise, slashing past both of them at top speed and leaving them in a cloud of dust.

This is when the man would like to tell you that it's the end, that they had crash against each other or did something equally stupid – except they hadn't. He took the lead in their show, running ahead – but before long, another fist pounded on his back, and he knew what that meant without even looking backwards.

From the corner of his dust-filled eye (No time to blink there) he can see the two of them closing in – still without a clear idea of what to but still persistent anyway. What had they expected to do anyway, ask quietly if he would surrender and let them take him back to Hammond? No thank you – that's not the way he runs, and if they think so, then they're delusional – ain't no untrained little bitch is going to take him down easily. The kid's voice was shrill as he shouted across the sound of the wind.

"Coming...Close!"

"Yeah? So?" In a quieter voice, he told him. "Take my gun out, we might have to solve these guys the old fashioned way."

"Are...Stupid! Dead people are attention!"

"Hello, have you forgotten – we're thugs? We don't give a f-damn!"

Growling, the kid loosened his sawed-off shotgun, extracting it out of it's holster on his lap, hidden under a makeshift leather bag. When they hit town, it goes into the bag, but you never know when you need it – and they probably would now.

It left a bad taste in the man's mouth – he does a lot of things for a lot of people, and most things he aren't proud of, and most things he's not going to tell even if you eat his heart out. But this is a dog eat dog world, and people whom are your comrades today, are your enemies tomorrow. People whom are alive now, in the next second they might be dead – and if you don't shoot first, then you shoot second and people who shoot the slow bullet always end up biting it themselves – literally.

Man of many things, but suicidal ain't one of it.

The kid took out the gun and placed the heavy thing between them, unlocking the safety. It it blows now, the man thought grimly – that'll be the end of his sweet ass. In order for the kid to shoot the thing properly – if such a need arise – they'll have to go slower though, and the man skidded their bike onto the desert that branched out of the main road itself.

Some people call this a beach, but he called it well, more like a desert. It's like one of those things they keep advertising on visit-Australia campaigns by dimwits. COME VISIT AUSTRALIA, WE HAVE NICE THEATERS AND TWIGS IN OUR DESERT. I mean, come on man – logic. Why would anyone go? The desert here's exactly like those – granted not as hot as those near Vegas, but they burn nonetheless, and you can feel the heat coming up in waves when you drive onto it. Slow Japanese sand steaming, babe – and the heat's probably going to work, judging by how he's rapidly approaching mental babbling.

The sand and heat slowed down the bikes considerably, as rubber expanded to the point of bursting and the sand provide all the friction they needed to slow the thing down. It wasn't just their bike slowing either – the two state-issues slowed down as well, though because the lead had decrease it's speed or because the terrain is so bumpy that one wrong move will send you flying – no one would know. Both bikes closed in again, determined to clip them in between their bikes, and one of the cop shouted out, livid.

"STOP! You know you can't run forever – we've got the orders against you--"

The other wasn't about to be outdone either. "If you do not cease and desist, we will, under the laws of the Californian..."

The man rolled his eyes. Where did these guys learn their vocabulary from, Big Momma's House? Christ on wheels.

"Sorry, but if you want a speeding shark, you'll need to catch it first!"

The kid dug his elbow into his sides, the unspoken message being shut the hell up please, you big embarrassment. His other arm was already up and levelling the sawed-off at one of the cops. The cop hesitated, but didn't stop, only yelling out warnings faster than ever. He probably thought the kid couldn't shoot it – well, newsflash, kid shoots – kid scores too.

This he prove a moment later, when they rolled pass a rocky terrain and he hissed at the driver. "Not hit!" He shouted, gesturing wildly with one hand while trying to hold the gun in place. The driver could see that it wasn't going to hit too – not with the terrain like this, all bumpy and only slightly less wild than he himself. But that was what he wanted – it wasn't like he wanted them dead or something, just to get them off his ass and stopped fucking him around. It's not personal, you git? He gets it – totally does – it's their job, they're just doing it.

But he's got a job too, and they're in the way of it – and when there's an obstacle, you move it out of your way, simple as that.

"It's 'right!" He shouted back. This time his voice came out as dry croak, and he needed to clear his throat and wet it with drying saliva before he could be heard. "It's alright!" He tried again, and this time his voice worked. "Just delay them, we don't have to kill them!"

The kid might have nodded, but the kid might have not – but the man's got better things to worry about.

The cop with the gun in his face is lagging behind their bike, clearly hesitant at giving chase to people who don't seem to think twice about shooting you in the head. The other had no such compunctions though, and rushed ahead of them, seemingly hellbent on setting his own bike in the middle of the road or something and put literal meaning to 'over my dead body'. Maybe it's a gut reflex sort of thing – when you want something to stop, you stop it yourself, and whenever they swerved right, the cop swerved with them too.

They're like a DNA structure, weaving in and out of each other in a double helix structure. They'll make fucking good James Bond material, that much the driver got – and it seems like a nice big show with God as director, the way their bikes HADN'T ram into each other. Then the cop made a violent swipe at his head with some kind of – IS THAT A NIGHT STICK? - baton or some sort, and he ducked just in time. If it had collided with the back of his head, they would have crash – and the cop would have crash with him, but apparently such logic have temporarily deserted them – taken over by the prey-and-predator instincts.

Behind him, the kid levelled the gun at the other cop. His trigger arm is stiff, like the hands of a dead man. His other one was under the barrel of the gun itself, trying to support it properly, like a person would a rifle and to get a better aim. He had twisted himself to the point where he was almost sitting backwards, but still he couldn't get a good aim. He doesn't want to kill the man either – he could, but killing is not what he does for fun. Just because you can shit, doesn't mean you spend all day shitting right? Logic.

The cop seemed emboldened by the fact that his hands shook like a rattlesnake's head – do rattlesnakes rattle? Must remember to ask – and his face could be seen setting into grim determination, even behind a layer of the helmet's plastic. The cop pressed down hard on his accelerator, dropping his upper body into a lower centre of gravity and sped forward. He must have wanted to join his colleague in taking swipes at the driver's head and knocking him off the thing – but he hadn't gotten his wish, because the moment he pulled up parallel to them, the kid let the shot loose.

One shot, two shots – and his shoulders scream in protest. They felt like some very big man had reached down and twisted it all the way backwards to the point where they start making these creaky noises that you know means that your tendons are protesting. The shotgun isn't made for him, reduced impact or no, but his own gun wouldn't make a dent in a fly, much less stop a moving vehicle. The guy's shotgun does though – or maybe it wasn't so much the shotgun as the impact diverging the cop's own momentum.

The guy's bike caught, or maybe it was pushed aside, but it lost it's balance, and skidded out of control and slanted off the way bikes like to go in racing tracks. You know how they slant all the way until it looks as if the motorcyclist is kissing the ground in prayer? Yes, exactly like that – going off in a 75 degree angle and ending with a loud crash that means either it's exploding, or it's gone and do some rolls, like sushi, only better.

The crash that filled the kid's ears weren't of the cop rolling, eastern delicacy or not though. It was of their own bike, and he had to bit his nails down hard into the leather of the cushion, or he would have been knocked right out of the thing. It wasn't like he was a prizewinner – and he clung to the gun for dear life. The barrel's pointing upwards at his face, and one wrong finger in the wrong spot and he would have blown his own face off. That thought flew across his head and missed contact though, and he cradled it like it was his favourite teddy bear and that it's not gunpowder he's smelling.

The driver swore as they hit a particularly rough patch. He swerved aside to miss one of those absolutely FUGLY desert ferns, and dived again like a champion at Paso Doble when the cop rushed at them. This guy must be out of his mind, the man thought – to run at him like that.

Why are they so desperate to get them anyway? Or is Hammond still sore about Redd White? Whatever, fucking bastard deserved what he got – and if Hammond gets one less bribe, what did it matter to him?

"Do I shoot?" The kid demanded of him, even though his nails were scratching the gun like horror movies and blackboards. The man shook his head though – kiddo finished one, now it's time for him to show what he can do too! He's not losing to some chipmunk, right?

He slowed the bike some more, to the point where all the swerving became dangerous because of their speed. The bikes were too heavy for this slow a speed, and violent motions left and right made it harder to balance than it would have been at high speed.

It might not make sense in a logical way, but think about it – the momentum of a fast vehicle would keep it in line. A slow one would be harder to control. The cop slowed along with them – just as he planned – and all that swiping became more frequent. The man looks really determined to do his head in, doesn't he?

"When I say go – jump from this thing." He ordered. The kid could have pierced the back of his head with his death glare.

"No want head?"

"Eh-heh-heh. Why not think of it as temporary insanity?"

The bike regurgitated under them, bucking like a wild horse. The thing wouldn't last much longer, not in it's current state. The kid clawed at his back. "Don't be...Stupid!"

'NOW!"

And then the guy did the craziest thing he's done in all of oh, 24 hours, discounting the chilli tacos.

The cop swung at him again with the thing, teeth now gnashing in frustration. He reached up, and forcefully jammed all five off his fingers around the thing and pulled. It hurt like assholes and bullshits and Thai food at full power, and he's pretty sure that at least his skin's gonnaa come off, but he did it anyway.

He loosened his other hand from the handlebar – practically having to pry it off, and clamped it around the man's upper arm. With one twisted around the nightstick and another one around his upper arm, he yanked the cop over.

The kid obeyed his instruction, jumping off the thing the moment he shouted, and that left him more space to manoeuvre. Their bike is overheating by now, and it, as he had mentioned, won't last much longer.

The cop joined him on their bike, landing like an ungraceful sack of potatoes. The man can barely stop, and nearly flew over the edge to bite the dust – but he clamped the man down firmly with both hands, pressing him like a compressive pillow. This is the kind of thing that makes people wonder – is that even possible? Oh, who gives a fucking care?

Who told Bell to fuck off when he made the magical lines?

The cop's bike, without someone to steer it, crashes off into yet another one of those ugly ferns protruding out of the ground like tumours. The man grinned savagely at the sight of the thing stopping a dozen feet away – that means they'll have alternative transport yet.

Now what to do with the man in front of him, almost blocking his access to the handlebars with his not inconsiderable grid? Well boy, does he have an answer for reached down, and unhooked a fresh pair of handcuffs.

"Guess what honey?" He asked him conversationally, hooking one end of it around the man's arms, and the other one around one end of the handlebars. He slapped the man playfully on the head. "Fifty bucks say you're gonna die."

Then he pushed himself off. He would have gone the most dramatic way, maybe lifting himself up with one hand and jumping backwards ala Matrix style – except that would break his back. So instead, he covered his head like a cowering coward and dived off the bike like a man off a diving board. He would like to say he flew across like Catwoman too, all grace an all, and landed on both feet. Except he hadn't either, and dropped off a couple of feet away, looking like something someone stirred out of yesterday's coleslaw.

The cop, he goes on – and the bike speeds off without anyone steering it. To give the man credit for his intelligence, he lifted his free hand in a gibbering attempt to steady the bike – and it probably saved his life too, because instead of crashing like a wild mare, the bike broke off into a shattered halt, going in a semi-circle before finally collapsing on itself and crushing half of the man under it.

The guy who had just launched himself off the springboard wasn't in any mood to admire that intelligence though.

He rolled off at least a dozen feet away, getting sand everywhere – once again, not because James Bond does it, but because the force threw him forwards and he ended up rolling like some fat man's cigar against his will. He ended up another half dozen feet away, finally paying momentum's dues and lay there, staring up at scorching San Diego – L.A sun.

1-5N. very exciting shit.

He stayed there too, letting adrenaline pump through both ears. This is what he signed up for. Excitement – lots and lots of excitement. It's fun, ain't it? Chasing cars around like these?

He stayed for a long long time, before the sun disappears and he thought that maybe you know, God have mercy. Instead, it was the kid, looking down at him with smiling eyes.

"Is head...Glued?"

He grinned up at him, slapping his own head lightly. "You think? I've got my head, AND the brains to go with it."

The kid lend him a hand, and reaching for it, he pulled himself upwards. He surveyed the carnage that's the two cops – and grinned self-righteously. Told them they gotta have some skills to catch them. You think they got onto the wanted list playing poker in dingy clubs? Come on – get real, folks. If you want to catch them and get yourselves a promotion, you do it by scouring small fishes, not aiming for the biggest sharks around here, appearances or otherwise. They probably weren't dead, but it still merited this question anyway :

"What...Do them?"

"What to do with them?"

'Yeah."

He shrugged. "Dunno. Call the cops, I s'pose. Can't leave them here or they'll be heat stroked."

"So kind," The kid said sarcastically. He took it like a man.

"Yeah, I know I am. Say, you got a mirror?"

"If incline...You can...Look in own puddle."

"Piss? Out here? It'll dry up before I check my reflection, thanks."

He climbed up, and dusted himself off. He's a wreck, through and through. Jacket? Crumpled. Shirt? Stained. Pants? FUCKING TORN. One silver lining in the clouds though, because his hairdo is still miraculously a-fine. Sleeking a hand over the legendary pompadour.

It's still there, and if it's there, it means the owner, Daryan Crescend, is there too.

"This beast," He jerked a thumb at himself, grinning wildly. "Is SEXY."

There's Daryan Crescend, bitch – and you better write that on your face if you don't trust your head. He's here, and he's here to stay - and if you don't like it buddy, take this cliff. Jump off it.

He smoothed his hand over his hair one last time, before tipping a coin at Machi Tobaye, still smiling at him like he's a wax figure with the head displaced. "I told you we're gonna run into trouble before we get to L.A. Now you gotta gimme fifty of those."

"It was...Five, Mr. Crescend,' Machi reminded him with a look. Daryan grinned sheepishly, caught trying to swindle the kid. Machi cleared his throat, and pointed at the remaining bike of the cop.

"Now...We go? We have...Appointment with Mr. Wright."

By the time they got to L.A, it was already the next day. It really wasn't the journey itself that took so long – like google had said, it was only supposed to be a two or three hour journey.

Between the both of them though, they managed to squander away their time. They were stopped by highway patrols all the time, because after all, they looked like refugees from prison or torture camp after their little tussle with Hammond's dogs. It didn't end there either – a couple of those could be seen drifting on and off the road, and well – Daryan's amazing and all, but he's not superman. He can't fight all day long and expect himself to leave in one piece.

So instead, they started going at snail pace, dodging here, slowing down there. Sometimes they check into bed and breakfasts, and choose the smallest, tiniest room. Once, they even had to hide behind the bike they stole from the cop like common morons when a cop sped by. Machi was irritable all trip long, annoyed that the police were dogging their every steps. It's no wonder that they chose to do it – Hammond had made it extremely clear that the two of them are, so to put it – wanted men.

Taking out a big asshole, especially one who had been faithfully paying Hammond his bribes, tend to do that to your reputation.

Daryan unwraps his hot dog, bought from some streetside vendor, and started chewing on it thoughtfully. It's evening now, and the street lamps always look the most forlorn at these time. Like instead of being part of the street, they look like individual loners who had been left to stand. Like those soldiers you see in one straight line, vital, but when it came down to it – so taken for granted that they might as well blend into the scenery.

Crossing the city border had been a pain too.

Chief vonKarma (Now isn't that a surprise? The little feline's promoted herself to chief since the last time he saw her) had the borders reinforced like the line between Mexico and America. Trucks were backlogged to check what they're carrying into the city, and maybe this is a great sign of humanity – maybe Daryan should write songs about this and sing it. Maybe this proves that this is what humanity's come to, that we have to line our city borders like territorial tribes.

Beside him, Machi chewed his own hot dog thoughtfully too. The kid's thoughts were probably different than his though, maybe he's thinking of home, and the art dealing grandfather who hadn't wanted him enough to pay Daryan's ransom for him. Or maybe he's thinking of his life, and how not fun it is following Daryan around as muscle men for hire. Black mail, kidnapping, murder, arson? They're your men – dial this number to burn your butcher down, now!

Two ladies walked pass them, turning their noses up at Daryan, disdain practically oozing out of their noses like booger tanks. Their thoughts are painted on their faces like their make up, and you don't need a psychology cert to tell people what they're thinking.

What a disgrace that guy is. Not that bad looking, but look what's he's doing with his life – dirty, messy and unwashed. For shame! Those are the guys mommy warned them not to marry, 'less all they got to show for it is the cheap knock-off ring on their middle finger.

Daryan dumped the wrapper for the hot dog on the ground, the nasty chemicals already coming out in the short time it's wrapped around the food. Yeah yeah, whatever. He gets it. They wouldn't think that of him if he's in a suit – but he isn't, and who's got time for suits anyway? Daryan's much cooler.

But right, right. Where was he? Don't let him sidetrack himself now. Oh yeah, the city.

It didn't used to be like this. He heard that back, oh, around ten years ago – things used to be safe and sane. Gangs were gangs back then, and cracked people are cracked people. People got overdosed, and people don't really give rat shits. So people want to screw their lives around – it's kind of like the ladies that had walked pass, ain't they? They care when they see, but once they walk out of sight, it's Big Apple and Donuts they're thinking about, not overdosed people.

Then policies change. Time's a-changing – humanity's on the rise to become a more civilized breed, and in order to move forward, we gotta cut out things that's not needed any more – things like crime and crack that's got no place in new society, good society. So they set up a border around cities, screen everything that goes by, enforce the crime like it's the new Jesus, and guess what? Crime's still around. Gangs still around. They've just gone more subtle is all, less burning and racketeering and more like serious upstart businessmen – but still there, and those are the kind of guys Daryan works for, so he should know.

Life's a-changing alright, and it's not always for the better.

"Snap out of it, Daryan, you're getting all philosophical and shit." He said aloud. Machi raised his small blonde head up to look at him, before returning to his food disinterestedly. Machi isn't interested in many things – the boy's got his own troubles that he's not keen to take on many of other people's problems too. He's in that stage y'know, where people try to find their places in the world, try to raise their head above the sardine crowd and bellow. Look at me. Won't you look at me? I'm not like these guys – I'm special, I got me a place in the world and I plan to find it.

Daryan had found Machi back in Pennsylvania, or Penisvania, as the kids where Daryan had grown up used to call it. Very exciting place, where things move like a 1940's car. Daryan and a bunch of no-goods - people destined for the high life - had kidnapped the kid, grandson to a rich Borginian merchant or sorts. Turns out the cops were onto them, and Daryan took the kid and made a run for it. His other mates got caught – and maybe literally got the high life. Daryan wouldn't know – he got on Alphonse Alfred, Neighbour, took his bike, and never once looked back.

Machi had to go with him of course. He's not letting the kid off to draw the cops a pretty portrait of Daryan, now in RGB. So he got dragged along, and these days he's more accomplice than victim really – it's been almost three years after all. He's not even in the official records any more, or at least, no one would recognize him without a thorough DNA swab. In a couple of years Machi Tobaye will be wiped off, and God rest his soul, he'll be legally dead.

La-la-la-la. One of these days Daryan's gotta sit down and start writing songs about their lives.

"You done yet?' He asked the kid. Machi was licking his fingers, and he wiped his hands clean off on a napkin. Machi's one of the only kids Daryan's ever seen who brings hankies around with him, but then ah, what does he know. Lifestyle of the rich and fabulous – maybe Britney actually has a secret hankering for handkerchiefs. What would he know?

The hands cleaned, the kid discarded the wrapper away too – properly, unlike Daryan. The he nodded like he's about to announce who gets on his will.

"I am...Ready, Mr. Crescend."

"Awesome."

He made no move to get up, and Machi doesn't either. They sat on the bench, starting to warm slightly to them. They were staring at a brick building opposite them, unpainted and slightly grimy with posters stuck on it. One shouted SIX FOR THE PRICE OF FIVE, LIMITED TIME ONLY and it had a picture of some pretty girl with boobs pointing in Daryan's direction. He had no idea what it's selling. Is it trying to convince people looking at it that the you get six beers for the price of five, or six boobs for the price of five? Jesus that's a horrible thought. Would you want to fuck a girl with one boob? Interesting thought. Daryan doesn't want to find out.

They stare at the wall until Daryan's pretty sure that they look like the classic madmen scenario. The street becomes significantly quieter at night, but also a lot busier. Did that make sense? Yes it did. People start to drift by more, walking in twos and threes. Roommates going out for a drink or two together. Couples heading out for dates. Girls preening at closed-down office doors, checking their reflection and on their way to some nice restaurant where they'll hopefully catch the eye of a young entrepreneur and never have to work again for the rest of their lives.

Machi and Daryan doesn't move though, just sit there like homeless hobos. Daryan's eyes never stopped moving. They were like the eyes of a liar, going back and forth as he notes every person who walks by their road. The building they're staring at looks like a derelict building. It's got the rotten fliers on one side of the wall to prove it, mortgage and FOR SALE signs on the other side. It's also got a door behind it, though from where they are, it looks as if it's at the side instead. The door's EXIT sign is lit up, which in itself spelt odd for an apparently deserted building.

Finally, at almost midnight, four hours of sitting and peeing in alleys later, they spotted a limo pulling up beside the building. Daryan's got 20/20 vision – or 40, as he would tell anyone who asked – but even he couldn't see well, due to the bad lighting of the place. The street light next to them is lit, but all it provided is a grey sort of light. All they saw was two men leaving the car, a blue, blocky one made for durability rather than speed.

Daryan watched as the first man comes out. He's not very tall, but his hairdo gives him the extra height. He walks like he's in charge though. Hand tucked in his coat and the other one holding a briefcase, but not in a cowardly way. He doesn't fold his hands behind him either, which some men do to give off the impression that they are in charge. Real people in control, they don't need things like that. Just being there is enough, walking and shushing the crowd without saying a single word...That's presence, charisma, and not all the grooming and manicures and polishing in the world can give you that.

The other man, a taller one, walked after the first man, and then they can't see anything more because the angle of the building massacred their vision. Daryan grunted.

That's him, for certain. Or at least as certain as they're going to get without actually walking up close and examining his ears for surgery marks. The guy who sent them the mail – the usual way – requesting that they help him up with a certain...Problem he had. Not a pay-by-act deal, but a pay-by-time deal. Daryan doesn't care either way, except that the mail came at an opportune time – they were growing maggots back in San Diego and had to jet.

He wondered why the guy chose to hire him though, instead of using his own men. Casualty control? Probably it. Smart man – leave his own men alone, and send someone else's Rook to do all the killing instead. Rook survives? Here, get a horny head and become a bishop. If he dies, he dies – Phoenix Wright loses nothing, and he wouldn't have to pay him a single cent. Smart man, smart man. Ain't you the smart man?

"Come on," He told Machi, getting up. He swung his arms left and right to work out the kinks in them. His bones are deep set into their position, and he felt like frozen chicken in DelMart.

Machi stood too, and folded his sunglasses and pocketed them. Where they're going, it'll be kind of hard to see with a pair of black lenses blocking his way. Machi hoisted his own knapsack, and handed Daryan his guitar case, containing all Daryan's worldly goods. The thing had miraculously survive the whole crash intact, with most of the goods inside still useable.

"Will we be...Alright?" He asked worriedly, looking at the looming shadow of the building. It dwarfs them, like a tower of doom all the way out of hell, inviting sinners. "This is...Bad place."

"What, the old rock? We go to these kind of places all the time," Daryan joked. Well, not Machi maybe, but him definitely. He slapped the kid lightly on the back. "Or you got too little balls to walk into the place now? Thought you were better than that."

He flashed him an annoyed look. "Not rock. City. Bad place. Many things happen...Like ants."

"Like ants huh?" Well, maybe that was a little true. Individual mounds of anthills fighting for the same honey. "Don't worry," Daryan said, flashing him his best, gonna-be-a-rockstar-someday grin. "We'll be fine, and well – if we won't be, I will."

Machi snorted delicately. "One for one, Mr. Crescend?"

"You say it, freak. Now let's waltz."

Armed with two knapsacks and nothing else, the two walked towards the derelict building.

Daryan loved the kind of bouncers they've got here. It's those kind that disappear when you put money in their banks, so to speak – and this one is no different. You know it by the way they look. All muscles, but when they look at you, and they look you up and down in that oh-so-practised insolent way, you can see the barest fraction of a gleam under those beady eyes.

Daryan saw it, and he extracted one one hundred bill stacks and inserted them into the man's pocket. That man smiles. Crooked teeth. Daryan smiles. Machi quirks his lips. The door opens, and the both of them walked in, and unlike Aladdin's magic cave, it closes behind them, the door – looking like something stolen from a high school locker – slamming shut loudly as if to say you're not getting that money back.

Bitch.

"You better pray this works out," Daryan joked, pushing Machi along. "'Cuz that's our last couple of hundreds, at least until the money for Redd comes in."

Machi doesn't look impressed, and Daryan turned back to the crowd, picking a suitable point to go into.

If Daryan had any doubts about fitting into the place before diving it, they were dispelled the moment he got in there. The place's got class, he'll admit it right off. It's different from what it looked like outside – way different. The layer of dirty bricks were actually hiding a bar and a dance floor, just as Daryan expected – except he hadn't expected it to be well, classy. All it had were teenagers though, so it ain't hard for him to fit in.

Phoenix Wright's little front – and there's no doubt that this is just a front for those bags of pills being traded around, small time stuff that's more pharmacy than opium – was much cleaner than he had expected. It could almost passed off as a normal club, teenagers shuffling in and out to the rhythm of the music, stuck in some ambient track that sounds a lot like humming on loop to Daryan. The lights were dimmed, and replaced with those club lights that Daryan hated. Those that imprint patterns onto the surroundings, before sliding up and down the wall like the lights were humping the wall itself.

Gives Darcy a headache, and he doesn't like it. But other than that, yeah – the place's got class. Not somewhere Daryan would hit for Saturday night out with the friends he doesn't have to get laid or maybe get drunk, but yeah, it's got it's class.

"Go," Machi hissed, tapping his arm. "People look."

Daryan nodded. People are going to look the moment they notice a kid like him wandering around a place like these. Maybe he should have thrown Machi off somewhere in a cheap motel, but what the hell – who's gonna lug around the luggage? Not Daryan, that would be just plain uncool.

He found a good spot where the crowd is thinner and less zombielike. They creep him out, going back and forth, back and forth on the balls of their feet with their eyes closed. It's like an old zombie show Daryan's seen.

They pick through the crowd, and climbed up the metal staircase that spanned across to the upper seats, the VIP box. No one ever sits here but the manager – and this time the boss. No teenager can bloody afford to even breath the air of these kind of seats, Daryan should know. What Daryan also knew was that the man leaning on it, eyes half-closed like he was sleeping – was their client. A guy who's send them love letters all across the coast line and got them running.

Daryan fought the urge to straighten his jacket, before knocking it off as yet another one of those teenage habits he never quite grew out of, like a comfortable shoe two sizes too small that you somehow still wear anyway. Why would I need to make myself presentable for him anyway? I'm the one on hire, but that doesn't mean I gotta grovel my ass. I can hit the freeway anytime. Daryan Crescend's got many takers.

Ah, but the freeway is overrunning with cops – maybe that's why?

"...So he's probably going to make a move soon, y'know?" The tall man was saying to another guy. It was some twitchy man that kept wiggling about, like a snake.

"Yes yes, of course. But he'll have a hard time finding buyers for the thing, not unless he can breed junkies."

"Huh." The man grunted, and called out to Wright, the sleeping guy, if photographs proof correct. "What do you think?"

He was preoccupied with frowning at that writhing man. Wright wasn't though, and his eyelids twitched a little as his eyes rolled over to where Daryan and Machi were on the threshold of the stairs.

"I think you should greet our guests, Armando."

The man's frown deepened, and he looked up at where Daryan and Machi were. Daryan winced. Holy bananas, this guy is a modern day walking pirate. He couldn't have gotten a patch for that thing?

One of the man's eye had a deep line through it, and from the looks of it – pretty fresh. Daryan hadn't gotten many of those, being relatively lucky (If lucky's the word) to have them on other concealable places. He's no expert on that matter, but this one looked fresh to him, onion-fresh, and the man grinned at him, probably knowing what that eye looked like to Daryan. Mashed potatoes, and it didn't look too sweet when the muscles pull when he smiles either.

"Well, well, hello there – what have we here, stray kittens?" He waved a hand at the writhing and twisting man, and the man disappeared off. "Scram, Sahwit. I'll call you when we need you."

Snake man grins, a gleeful sort of look that Daryan didn't like – and then he climbed off and slithered away down the staff stairs, obviously a regular around here. Maybe he comes on weekends to get some drunk teenagers? Daryan would shudder, if he hadn't seen a million of this type of people. Stereotyping people is bad, he knew – makes you off balance and vulnerable to surprises, but what the hell? It all looks the same after one and a thousand miles.

The one-eyed man cocked his head at them, as though asking them : What are you waiting for, flies and maggots? Machi gave Daryan a tiny push from behind, and they walked into the middle of the room.

Once they're there though, it's like all the spotlights were suddenly on them, even though there were only four people in the room – and two of them were well, them. The one-eyed man's one eye was on them, not losing a single shred of sharpness despite it's singularity. He was looking at them as if they were novels or shirts he's planning to buy, but can't make up his mind whether they're a good deal or otherwise. The other man's look at them too, even though he masked the fact through lidded eyes. Daryan's long learned to look at people's eyelids – they twitch when someone's been turning the eye under the skin.

Daryan smoothed a hand over his hair. When in doubt, brazen it out.

"So," Pirate-face drawled. "What business do you have here, kittens? If you're looking for the dance floor, you just passed it."

"Really? Gee, I hadn't noticed. Think I should double back and check?"

"Probably. And probably your eyesight too."

Daryan snorted. "I'm here, in case you haven't heard – because your boss ringed us up for our services. Kinda like whores, except sexier. Think he's remembering that, with that kind of constipating look he's got there?"

The man smirked, instead of acting all defensive. Daryan had thought that man was some kind of bodyguard – what with the eye like that – but guess first impression's not always right. Maybe he's like, some other gang leader or a friend? No matter – Daryan's business was not with him.

Machi sniffed beside him. "Strange man." He announced stiffly.

Daryan smiled. The man elbowed Wright, drawling, "Hey, you wanna wake up, Trite? People are going to think you've got narcolepsy."

Spikes grinned, and as Daryan had expected, opened his eyes immediately. No sleeping fool would be able to do so – and his eyes were wide awake to prove it.

"Well," He shot back. "How am I going to skip out on all the work if I don't pretend to be asleep all the time?"

"How can you call yourself a man you bunch of..."

Wright only grinned in answer – man with an easy smile. He turned to them, and the grin slips off, and he's all business, with a serious and solemn face. Man who doesn't joke around either.

"So you two. I gather you're Daryan Crescend – and his partner in crime?"

"Yes we are," Daryan said, not in the mood to do snark.

"Machi," Machi said simply by way of introduction. Wright gave him a small nod of acknowledgment, before turning back to Daryan. No mistaking who's the primary head of the Hydra here either.

"I'm sorry there aren't any welcoming mat services for you guys. I hadn't expected you guys to get here so fast," He explained. "I only sent the message down what, a few days ago? When did I send out for them, Armando?" He asked absentmindedly.

"Three." Armando replied. As if you don't know, Daryan thought. As if you don't have photographic memory, and is just putting up some kind of rubbish act to pretend you're such a nice man. This isn't a cop show buddy – no one's a good cop here.

"That's right, three was it. I hadn't expected you guys to arrive so early – I had heard that you guys were getting popular in the business, or at least you've tripped across enough cops to piss people off. Ah, wait a second," He lit up a cigarette and took a deep breath. "Ah, that's better. Now we may talk better, yes?"

He gestured at the both of them, still slightly dirty from their journey. "What's with the dirty look, or is it the new fashion?"

"Hammond was after my ass," Daryan explained. "Tripped across his people."

'Ah, then you must have also tripped across their wires."

" I didn't trip across cop wires," Daryan retorted. "It was just that Hammond being a shit head."

"Or maybe you did – literally so, and that's why he's hunting you down."

"Don't give me that fuckery – I don't make mistakes. I don't know how he got in on us, but you can be sure it wasn't because I made a mistake."

"Yes...I heard you were the one behind White's latest...Soiling?" He cracked a grin at his own joke – though it was a grim one that Daryan didn't feel like laughing at. This man's been digging about him, he sees. Common, he supposed, considering what he's probably hiring him for and the kind of circles he worked for – he just hadn't expected it to be dug up so quickly, while the mud's not even had time to cake down into cracks.

There are many people who work like Daryan – some of them form teams. There's one for example, that moves about in the guise of a circus that he knows, makes transporting large pieces of equipment easier. They're not hitmen, per se – hitman make it sound like blood money, like they were a man in a suit with a number tacked behind his neck. They're far simpler things – they're just humans who get paid, who get things done 'cuz they like the money and your average gang member doesn't like to do the things they do.

Robbery, beating up people? Those the normal guys do. Discreet burglary, offing the Kennedys of the underworld? Not so much, thanks – carries a life penalty, pal.

These people – that's to say, Daryan and co – are secretive too, and he would hardly like it bandied about that yes bitches, the one who put that hole in Redd White's magnifulous, prettyful, shinygaziwhatever forehead is them.

"I see you've been busy, Mr. Wright." He said stonily.

The man's loses his smile – that seems to be a VIP thing too, like their boxes. An elitist club gets to see him joke, and none outside it. Playful with friends, serious to wild dogs. Two-faced much, Mr Wrong? "Yes, you could say that. I like to know the kind of people I work with."

"Rude," Machi announced. "If want know, should ask?"

Wright flicked some ashes off, looking bored. "I knew there was something I forgot. Ask, of course. Could have reminded me, Armando."

Armando doesn't respond. It seems they are twin Terminators onto the same power source – when one functions, the other one goes into sleep. It's probably because it's easier to observe people, see their little twitches when you're not talking and concentrating on looking instead.

"At any rate, I applaud the both of you. You've arrived here in such a short span of time – and one of you not even old enough to be in here. Very well done, Mr. Crescend and Machi."

"If we wanted to listen to your applause, we would have gone to one of my shows," Daryan shot back. Ah, did some of those when they're not busy. Sells out all the time too, even if they're just rock bars most of the time. He felt awkward standing, and dragged Machi backwards with him, falling into the opposite couch. "So cut the shit out, loser – what did you call us here for? I hope you've got a job for us, or you're paying our travel bill with your face."

A flicker of annoyance across his face. "I gather you've heard what things are like around here?"

"Around here where? L.A? SoCal? California? The world? I'm a genius man, but I don't read minds."

"L.A," He clarified. "Specifically, our turf, and the turf around here."

"Yeah, we heard. Big deal this past week. Lots of hacking and limbs."

"Ah," Flick flick. Ashes on the ground. "You get the news on the road then?"

"There is...newspaper, Mr. Wright. Very good thing in America – tells you much thing."

Wright snorted. "Oh those, I thought they've gone and gone bankrupt."

"Handy when you need to wrap stuff, that's why housewives still buy them." Daryan tapped his fingers and counted to ten. This man is wasting his time, and he's starting to think there's got no job here to be dug. If that's the case, then they're on hot dogs till the money for Redd's job come in. Daryan wouldn't go so far as to announce that they're gonna off this shithead for wasting their time – he's not so dumb as to provoke a guy obviously out of their realm – but he can't say he's fond of assholes who waste his time.

Wright noticed the finger-tapping, and he leaned forward.

"To business then. You have heard then, of Gavinne, I presume?"

"Gavinne? Yeah, I have."

"And what do you know of them?" He asked.

Daryan frowned. What game is this? Pin the Gavinne? "It's an okay gang I guess. It's pretty big, but not the best. Pretty good at smuggling. Suck in full out-front confrontations. More maggots than an opened coffin. G stands for Grudges, that's what the city says. That's all I know."

Wrights elbows were on the table in front of him, and his hands flexed together, the fingers meeting at the tips.

"Then I'll tell you what you don't know. L.A's divided into five gangs. Rivales, Gavinne, Gramarye, Kitaki, and Cadaverinni. Now, Cadaverinni is ailing. Their leader is missing – and no one knows where she is." He says this straight front, and it's the eyes of a truthspeaker, or a very good liar. "Kitaki wants out of the business, and their heir is in the jail as we speak. Rivales is eaten from the inside – a man name Wellington's been siphoning funds out of the place with his gained trust, and there's been rumours of many of their members quitting to join a doomsday cult based here. So proof to me, Mr. Crescend, that I haven't chose a stupid man for this job : Do me some math. How many gangs are left in the run?"

"Two," Machi replied. Daryan shot him a look.

"I could have count, thanks a lot."

"Could have, but wrong," He giggled.

Wright smiled at Machi. "Right, kiddo. Two. It's just us and Gavinne left, and I'm none too happy with 'em folks. You could say that you're right when you said the whole group's a can of worms : the leader is the biggest worm of them all." Daryan raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged.

"The truth," He said simply. "Hard to call a gigantic white slug an angel, I'm a straightforward kinda man."

Armando snorted so hard, Daryan thought he would spray whatever he's drinking right out of his nose. Wright ignored him and pressed on. "And now, magic question, folks. You know of the drugs that's been moved into the city, don't you? Can't read the news and not know, so I'll tell you up front – no use lying. I just want to know how much."

Daryan's face is impassive. Yeah, he knows of the drugs. Probably even more than these two put together, if you don't mind him. At the man though, he only shrugged, as though they were talking about kidney stones and not white diamonds. "All we know is what we scraped up from the same-job folks. There were drugs. Were Cadaverinnis. Were yours. Now gone."

"Gavinne's got it," Wright announced. Machi's brows raised, and Daryan's face rearranged into a shocked look.

"Is that so?"

"Yeap, condition of the world right now."

"And that's got something to do with us...?"

Wright leaned back, and this time when he said business – Daryan knew he really meant business. He's heard rumours that Phoenix Wright might have been real good at dealing with Zak Gramarye's enemies, but that he's gone soft with age. He defies them all though, and Daryan just calls them a fool in his mind.

This man and that man – Gavinne - is no different. One hides it under a layer of polish and smiles. This one hides it under a modest facade. Perhaps they differ in degree of rottenness, but then they're all rotten apples. Even Daryan is one. Only difference is if it's gone from core to skin, or just around the heart.

"I'll make it simple. I want those drugs back. I don't know where they are – and it's your job to find that out for me. It's not easy – and I don't expect it to be, or I won't be hiring you two. And in the meantime, I want you to borrow a boy of Gavinne's for me."

"Borrow?" Daryan asked. "You mean kidnap?"

"Borrow. Don't make a fuss about it. I want the kid – and I want it silently, without Gavinne ever knowing, do you understand me?"

Daryan smirked. Yeah, can see where this is going now. Itsy bitsy spider, climbing up the wall...

This is awesome. It's like being an immaterial object, like a knife. Handy tool you gotta pay for, and it gets the job done for you. You don't needa use your own men, which would be far easier to be recognized by Gavinne. Yeah, Daryan's starting to get the picture now. Smart man he said, and he'll say it again – smart man. Looks like Gavinne hadn't known what he's getting into when he rubbed this guy all over with chilli powder.

"I'm gonna need details though. Day, time, place – and obviously, the guy we gonna nab."

"You can do it whenever, I don't give a damn – but at least make it quick. I'm not the recycling committee for his empty boxes. The guy though..."

Armando pulls up a case, behind it a file, and gives the file to Daryan. Daryan flipped through it and raised an eyebrow. It didn't look like a hard job – looks like just another wimpy kid. Guess it must be more intricate than poor ol' Daryan is capable of knowing.

Well, he'll surprise these folks one day, won't he? He thought nastily.

He handed the file to Machi, whom entered it into his rucksack like a faithful ol' secretary. "Got it. Get you the guy then. You know the price I roll by, right?"

"Outrageous," Armando quipped, and slid the briefcase over too. Machi clicked it open, then clicked it shut.

"How much?" Daryan asked, not bothering to look. Machi wasn't kidding when he said he was better with numbers.

"Fifty."

"So much?" Daryan shot at them. Usually it didn't go pass forty, and that's the whole job. "Not afraid I'll run off with the bling?"

Wright gave him a hard smile – a real politician's smile, with a real politician's handshake to go with it. "Think of it as trust money. I think we'll have some business for you yet."

"Huh." Daryan said nothing, only extracted his hand from the handshake. Almost too quickly, and he hoped he hadn't dived into this one too quickly either. Money's good and all, but his ass – and Machi's – is kinda more valuable. No sense in worrying...For now. Right? Here today, gone tomorrow. True for bananas, true for money.

He nodded at Machi, and the both of them left, Machi cradling the briefcase like a baby someone's just handed him fresh. They slipped out the way they came in – the music still pounding in that rhythmic beat that's gonna stick in Daryan's head all night long.

Diego's eye was veiled, right until they left. Once they did, Phoenix snapped his fingers and leaned over the edge of the seating, calling down to the deejay.

"Hey, change that music. Getting on my nerves."

There's a murmur of protest amongst the disgruntled teenagers, but then the music changes into something rocking, and they forgot it, merely changing how they were dancing. The music's the strings to their puppet self.

"You couldn't have changed that earlier?" Diego asked. "I thought you always said these asshole music were for elevators."

"I did. But it says here in Psychology 101 that music helps you manipulate people better."

"That's shit."

"True, but hey – it's some shit we should invest in. Since we're dealing with Gavinne, why not learn a few mindfuckery techniques?"

Diego would have rolled his eyes at him, if it didn't hurt his face. Yeah, it hurts real bad when he moves that side of his face too much. Phoenix's offered him to go off and have some surgery done so that he can stop scaring the potential bed partners away, but Diego had declined. Hiding behind a mask – especially such a pretentious one – is simply not his way.

And speaking of ways.

"You're getting as sneaky as that Gavinne, Trite."

Wright raised his eyebrows innocently, and put down his little book. "How so?"

"Telling Hammond that you've called for them – and that they'll be heading down the San Diego-L.A roads? That was low."

Wright snapped the book shut, laughing. But it's a hard sort of laugh, that Diego's come to differentiate. There's Phoenix, whom you crack jokes with, and then there's Wright, whom you do business with.

"Well a little tussle is good for them. If they're hurt, they'll be more likely to accept my offer, what with Hammond patrolling the road like a bloodhound. I wasn't sure if they would accept the job, so I cut off their retreating road, is all."

"And now they can't turn back until the thing dies down. I don't know if I should call you a smart man or a coward, Wright."

"Call me a smart coward then," He retorted. "It's not trickery, it's just brains. A few tricks I've been learning off Gavinne, is all."

"And the justificatory way of talking too, it seems like."

Phoenix looked angrily at him, before blowing another mouthful of smoke out. "I don't give a damn. He stepped on these toes first, and I'll be damned if I dance ballet with him on crushed toes. He wants to waltz? I'll jive with him."

Diego said nothing. Had the power got into the head, or was it Mister Wrath? Should we watch some shows? This ain't the seventies anymore. You can't practice The Godfather on these streets and expect to come away from it, scot-free. They have DNA now, fingerprinting. You spit on some sod's face, and they CSI you. You bring your hair-fall problem to the battlefield, and they CSI you. Hell, if he drank coffee on the scene, they'll probably find some way to trace his sterilized mug back to his beans. It's not a good game plan.

"Look," Phoenix snapped. "I don't like being played for a fool, alright? So are you with me, or are you with me?"

Diego sighed. That's the answer. Phoenix's face relaxed.

"Now come on, can it, you mugger. We're going to discuss how Kristoph Gavinne is not going to be selling those drugs of his."