Disclaimer: "Dark Angel" is owned by James Cameron and Fox; I am not making any money off the writing of this story.
Author's note: Based on the song "Faster, Faster" by Bree Sharp. If you do not have this girl's album, go buy it. Now! Soon, I will
actually post a story that has a plot, I promise. I can do things besides song fics.
Spoilers: Not really set at any particular time, but obviously before the end of the season, 'cause Max isn't going anywhere just now.
Summary: Not too much plot, but a Max-reflecting piece.
TRASHY MOTORCYCLE BEAUTY
Max blinked as another bug bounced off of her glasses and felt it get stuck in her hair. *Maybe I should invest in a helmet,* she
thought, changing lanes. The border was coming up fast, another check point to slow her down. She wanted to get away from it all,
just for a little while.
She was tired.
As traffic slowed by the security post, she leaned down to scratch her ankle inside her boot. It was probably time to think about new
shoes as well; she'd had this pair almost since the Manticore break. They were starting to fall apart at the toe. She pushed the bike
forward, hating to think about getting rid of the boots. They had been with her since she had first been free, since she had been old
enough to have a job, and no one would ask any questions. They were the first thing she had ever purchased with her own money.
Finally through the check point, with a ID card courtesy of Eyes Only, she passed the slow moving cars in front of her. She wouldn't
stop tonight, not for anything. The more distance between her and Seattle, the better.
*Logan,* she thought, a little angry and a little sad. She could not think of a more unreasonable person in her life. The fight had been
huge, an arguement about dangers, and rehabilitation. She'd slammed the door hard, shaking some knick knacks onto the floor of his
apartment. It had made her feel even worse.
*So I ride alone.*
She gave the bike more gas, feeling it jump a little and then the wind picked up around her. At least the road did not fight back with
her; the road understood her. The road let her make the rules.
This was supposed to have been *their* trip. They were going to travel to Logan's family cottage for a break. It was only going to be
for two days. But Japanese gangs, oil spills and government corruption just couldn't wait, according to Eyes Only.
She rode on.
Max adjusted her bag on her back, ignoring the glares from the slimy men in the bar. She just wanted a drink, something with a lot of
alcohol in it, before she started out again. *It's nice,* she thought, downing a shot of whiskey, *to not have to worry about drunk
driving.*
It had been two days since she left Logan's apartment. She was almost back to Seattle, where she would return to him the ID she'd
stolen, along with the small amount of cash she'd lifted from his wallet. It had felt good to do that to him, even if he wouldn't miss it
that much. It was proof, to her at least, that she could still be a thief, even with the people she knew best.
*It's time to go home,* she thought as she swung her leg over the bike. *Bills to pay, apologies to make...gotta start sometime.*
The bike started smoothly and she was off again, watching as the yellow lines blurred together and the city approached. Another
guard post, another mile. She was a little worn now, from all the riding, but she felt better. There was no freedom for her in Seattle,
but it was definitely better than Manticore.
With the city now in plain view, she gave a sigh, taking off her glasses. City traffic never went fast enough to need him. At the
crossroads, she went left and not right. When Logan needed her, he would call her. She could wait.
She rode on. Home.
Author's note: Based on the song "Faster, Faster" by Bree Sharp. If you do not have this girl's album, go buy it. Now! Soon, I will
actually post a story that has a plot, I promise. I can do things besides song fics.
Spoilers: Not really set at any particular time, but obviously before the end of the season, 'cause Max isn't going anywhere just now.
Summary: Not too much plot, but a Max-reflecting piece.
TRASHY MOTORCYCLE BEAUTY
Max blinked as another bug bounced off of her glasses and felt it get stuck in her hair. *Maybe I should invest in a helmet,* she
thought, changing lanes. The border was coming up fast, another check point to slow her down. She wanted to get away from it all,
just for a little while.
She was tired.
As traffic slowed by the security post, she leaned down to scratch her ankle inside her boot. It was probably time to think about new
shoes as well; she'd had this pair almost since the Manticore break. They were starting to fall apart at the toe. She pushed the bike
forward, hating to think about getting rid of the boots. They had been with her since she had first been free, since she had been old
enough to have a job, and no one would ask any questions. They were the first thing she had ever purchased with her own money.
Finally through the check point, with a ID card courtesy of Eyes Only, she passed the slow moving cars in front of her. She wouldn't
stop tonight, not for anything. The more distance between her and Seattle, the better.
*Logan,* she thought, a little angry and a little sad. She could not think of a more unreasonable person in her life. The fight had been
huge, an arguement about dangers, and rehabilitation. She'd slammed the door hard, shaking some knick knacks onto the floor of his
apartment. It had made her feel even worse.
*So I ride alone.*
She gave the bike more gas, feeling it jump a little and then the wind picked up around her. At least the road did not fight back with
her; the road understood her. The road let her make the rules.
This was supposed to have been *their* trip. They were going to travel to Logan's family cottage for a break. It was only going to be
for two days. But Japanese gangs, oil spills and government corruption just couldn't wait, according to Eyes Only.
She rode on.
Max adjusted her bag on her back, ignoring the glares from the slimy men in the bar. She just wanted a drink, something with a lot of
alcohol in it, before she started out again. *It's nice,* she thought, downing a shot of whiskey, *to not have to worry about drunk
driving.*
It had been two days since she left Logan's apartment. She was almost back to Seattle, where she would return to him the ID she'd
stolen, along with the small amount of cash she'd lifted from his wallet. It had felt good to do that to him, even if he wouldn't miss it
that much. It was proof, to her at least, that she could still be a thief, even with the people she knew best.
*It's time to go home,* she thought as she swung her leg over the bike. *Bills to pay, apologies to make...gotta start sometime.*
The bike started smoothly and she was off again, watching as the yellow lines blurred together and the city approached. Another
guard post, another mile. She was a little worn now, from all the riding, but she felt better. There was no freedom for her in Seattle,
but it was definitely better than Manticore.
With the city now in plain view, she gave a sigh, taking off her glasses. City traffic never went fast enough to need him. At the
crossroads, she went left and not right. When Logan needed her, he would call her. She could wait.
She rode on. Home.