Hey everyone! Era here just to tell you to hold on tight and that I'll see you at the end of this chapter.
Back to Manic! Yet another Rouge Relationship chapter, but this time there's something different- Manic isn't such an idiot in this one! Surprised, ain't cha?
Comments!
Gwencarson126: Wow, best fanfiction ever? That's quite a compliment!
Wafflesbelike-NYANCAT: The romance is what makes it amazing! THE FEELS (I love the feels, but I hate them at the same time… that's normal right?)
Maxi-T: You proud yet, mama? YOU PROUD? (... Okay, now I'm confused.)
StarlightSparks: Hey, thirteen's my lucky number too! Dunno why folks think it's bad. They're probably just jealous 'cuz thirteen likes me and not them. (Hey, thirteen isn't mean to me… I just don't like it. Drives my family crazy and they drive me crazy by bring it up every moment they can. Actually, I have no idea how Manic is going to read his siblings… we'll just have to see, won't we?)
Juancastri11: TOKYO! GET WRECKED! (*facepalm* Please ignore that… And I'm glad you had fun in Rio! I want to get that game for the 3DS, but I'm hesitating… Eh, whatever. I'll cross that road when I get to it.)
Autumn: Aw, thank you! (Yay! Mission is a success. Just Kidding. (; )
ultimateCCC: Drink it till you drown. (... I'm so confused…)
Zosonils: Holy Totem Poles, I love that phrase. Totally making that a thing now. (Of course you are, Halo. Anyway. Happy Birthday! Here's another (very) late present.)
Quantum27: Thank you! (Thank you for the consideration. Glad you enjoyed it!)
Matthews's POV:
What's better than a good old-fashioned, vendor-style hot dog? Nothing, that's what.
"Gordie, my man!" I grinned, striding up to the hot dog cart and grinning. "How's it hanging?"
"Matthews!" The middle-aged walrus perked up, his twinkling eyes barely peeking over his enormous bushy mustache. His apron strings looked about ready to break from the strain of his pot belly, and he spoke with a heavy italian accent. "What can I getcha?"
"The usual, Gordie, and extra relish today. I'll be paying with cash."
Gordie swapped me a hot dog for a fistful of bills and I bit into it, savoring the juicy saltiness of the wiener and condiments combined. Hot dogs were the one thing I ever used actual money to acquire (after I took ownership of the wallets the money came from, of course). Worth it, too; Gordie made the best dogs on the East side (and possibly the West side too, but I don't eat from those uppity rich people restaurants on principle).
I finished my dog and briefly contemplated heading to the mall to go people-reading before remembering that I am currently not welcome there due to a tiny misunderstanding involving the wishing fountain and a bottle of dish soap and a person who looked uncannily like me pouring one into the other.
Long story short- that could've been anybody, and that nasty fountain needed to be cleaned anyway. And probably the floor. And the pants of the thirty-something people who slipped in it.
Moving on!
I pulled out my drumsticks and began tapping randomly on the buildings, the sidewalks, people's heads, anything in reach. I closed my eyes, feeling the rhythm of the beat…
And quickly opened them again when I felt a disturbingly strong hand grab my shoulder.
"Long way from home, ain't cha, kid? You gonna play me something with those sticks?"
Like the idiot I am, I turned around to get a look at him, leaving me wide open for him to sucker punch me in the face.
I fell back, clutching my chin where the blow had landed. He hit me again while I was dazed, but luckily he just grazed me. Recovering quickly, I retreated to get my bearings. I got a good look at the guy who jumped me- a twenty year old squirrel with muscles as big as my head and a reputation for having a powerful punch.
And he was a Meerkat.
Hoo boy.
He wasn't armed though (good for me), so I figured I had a decent chance of scaring him off before he put too many dents in me. I took a look around and felt a twinge of panic. Without meaning to, I had wandered into enemy territory while still wearing my dark red denim jacket with the sleeves cut short, the one with the Striker colors sewn on the back. That may not seem like a big deal to you because chances are, you don't belong to a gang. But the rules around here are pretty straightforward: you join a gang and wear your colors in your own territory as a sign that you're a member, not to mention a shield to ward off any knuckleheads who wouldn't otherwise know that you're on their side. But when you enter some other gang's turf wearing your colors, take them off. It's a sign of respect. And if you don't feel like taking them off? That's asking for trouble, buddy. The only other thing you'd need is a sign on your forehead that says, 'Calling all dirtbags! Please beat me up!'
You can see why I was starting to feel queasy.
I didn't have much time to kick myself too much, though, because the jerk who jumped me was far from finished. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a pair of brass knuckles and slipped them on, ready to knock me into next week. 'Not today, pal,' thought our dashing hero as he began calculating his ingenious strategy for defeating this scuzzball.
Making to sure to stay outside his reach, I quickly scanned the area for something, anything, to defend myself, or at least distract him enough to run for the hills. Off in the corner was an empty glass beer bottle peeking out of an overflowing trash bag. I snatched it up by the neck, swinging it at my opponent. He ducked, allowing the end of the bottle to smash against the wall, pieces of broken glass raining down onto the pavement around our feet. I brandished the sharp end at him, scowling fiercely. I can look really mean when I want to, and right now was the perfect time to pretend to be intimidating.
"Back off, man! I ain't trying to disrespect you or anything. I'm taking off my vest, see?" I swept off my jacket and threw it behind me. "No harm, no foul. I'll just be on my way."
"I don't think so, Striker," he grunted. Quicker than I would have thought possible, he slammed his fist into my stomach, sending me toppling back onto the cement. Those knuckles really did a number on me; I felt like I had broken a rib. Luckily, I had kept hold of my busted bottle, and swiped the guy's left arm with the sharp end. He roared like a lion and I took the opportunity to strike again, this time angling for his face.
Unfortunately, it seemed that he had anticipated my move and grabbed the non-sharp part of the bottle, tossing it aside and shattering it to splinters against the unforgiving sidewalk without ever taking his eyes off me. Before I had time to jump out of his reach, he grabbed the front of my tee shirt and began wildly punching me in the stomach. Our hero was in deep agony, seeing how this jerk was playing dirty by using brass knuckles, but he refused to yield!
I reached into the side pocket of my cargo pants and flipped out my blade. Just when the Meerkat thrusted his fist forward for another blow, I pointed the end of the knife right in front of his fist, the two colliding painfully.
He bellowed in anguish, clutching the fist that was gushing waves of dark red blood; I could see where I had punctured him; the bone was sticking out and his ring finger, where the blade had punctured the worst, looked like a bloody sausage from the grocery store meat aisle. I knew this was the best chance I had to break away, but his hold on the front of my shirt was still iron-tight. Using my blade once more, I cut a small tear in the fabric right next to where his fist held me in place. I jerked away, allowing the entire front of my shirt to rip off. Snatching up my jacket from the ground I took off, scaling a chain link fence and not daring to look back.
I didn't stop running until I was safely back on my own turf. I hated getting jumped.
It happened a lot on my side of the city, and not just when you acted like some birdbrained stooge who's not watching where he's walking. It can happen anywhere, even when you're in your own territory. In my neighborhood, the phrase, 'don't talk to strangers' isn't just a rule you give to kids; it's the number one thing to remember besides 'don't get caught' and 'snitches get stitches'. I was just lucky that it had only been one guy- most of the time it's two or three in a group who jump trespassers.
Not really having any place in particular to go, I headed down to the pawn shop. The shop was in the heart of ghetto, a small but infamous shop known for attracting pretty shady customers. At least it was infamous among the criminally advanced community; any gangster worth his salt (and his life) knows to keep his mouth shut good around cops, so luckily no law enforcement officers have paid us a visit yet.
Gabe was working behind the counter as usual, reading a magazine. He grunted in my direction as I headed into the back room, and I gave him a small nod (we didn't talk much, me and Gabe, and when we did it was mostly me making stupid comments and him telling me to shut up or he'd beat the tar out of me. He hasn't gone through with it yet, so I just keep making stupid comments).
In the back room were Mitch and Tony, playing cards. They looked up when I walked in, then stopped to take a better look at me.
"Hey Maniac, that's a weird fashion statement you've got going on there," said Mitch, setting his hand down and cracking a grin. "But if you wanted a new vest, couldn't you have just gotten one from a store? And what's with all the bruises?"
I looked down at my chest; several brown and purple splotches had appeared, exposed by my torn tee shirt. Note to Self: Get a new shirt.
"Oh, this?" I said casually. "Got jumped. No biggee."
"Jumped? Here?" asked Tony incredulously. "By who?"
"Some Meerkat. Big guy. Hard fists."
"And he jumped you here? Off his own turf?"
"Ah…" I paused, grinning sheepishly. "...Not exactly."
"Wassat supposed to mean?"
"It means that I was being a bonehead and accidently wandered into Meerkat land."
Tony and Mitch simultaneously face palmed. I shrugged my shoulders and grinned weakly. "Sorry."
"Hey man, if you want to be dead before you're seventeen, be my guest," said Mitch, setting his attention back to his game. "But coming from a person who likes and sort of tolerates you, take my advice: get your head out of the clouds before it gets shot."
"Thank you, mother."
"And don't be such a smart mouth."
"Too late."
I hooked my thumbs in my pockets and headed over to the small kitchenette in the corner. It was pretty basic, just a fridge off to the side and a microwave on top of a counter that should really get cleaned sometime. I grabbed a grape soda from the fridge and popped it open, taking a sip and heading back to the main room.
"Where's Ferrell?" I asked, leaning on the back of the couch.
"In the meeting room."
"Why?"
"Dunno. He's talking with some girl who walked in a half an hour ago."
"Which girl?"
"Go see for yourself if you're so curious."
I did, walking over to the meeting room and peeking in the puny window on top of the door. Ferrell had neglected to close the blind, so this wasn't a high-security thing. I wasn't tall enough to see anything more than the very bottom of the window, so I wasn't able to identify who he was talking to.
The door was built to be almost totally soundproof, so there was no point to try and eavesdrop. Besides, it was probably just some special client or something. No biggie.
I crashed on the couch and watched Mitch and Tony gamble away their pocket money, not really paying attention to the game but still making wisecracks at every turn. Eventually, the door opened and out came Farrell. I didn't bother to turn around; I had pretty much lost interest in whoever he had been meeting with.
I did, however, regain that interest when I saw Mitch and Tony's expressions.
Their jaws had dropped wide open and their eyes were as big as wagon wheels. Tony opened his mouth to say something, but his resolve faltered and he shrunk back, his face white as a sheet.
"Dude, what's wrong with you?" I asked. "You working on your fish impression? You're doing it all wrong, man. See, it's more like this-" I took a swig of soda and began to gargle obnoxiously. The two turned and looked at me as I were crazy. Mitch pointed a trembling finger to where Farrell was and I turned around. Sure enough, the big guy was there, but he had a guest standing beside him.
Rouge the Bat stared down at me with mild contempt written on her face, then diverted her eyes to study her talon-like fingernails. I was so shocked to see her that I choked on my soda, spraying it out of my nose and onto the couch cushions. Fun fact- soda burns when it's shooting out of your nostrils.
She wrinkled her nose at me in disgust as I hurriedly wiped my sticky face off on my arm. What the heck was she doing here?
Worst.
Timing.
Ever.
In spite of this, I tried to look cool and nonchalant, leaning back in my seat and winking at her. "Hey," Another drop of soda dripped down my upper lip. Smooth, Matthews.
Farrell cleared his throat, uncomfortable. He looked tense.
"Boys, this is Rouge the Bat, agent of GUN. I take it you are already, ah… familiar with her?"
The three of us nodded in unison. I wanted to say something witty, but for once my mind drew a blank.
"Good. She's here to interview each of you for your personal takes on the crime levels of our fair city. If all you's cooperate, then we'll be making an agreement with GUN to not be jailed for running the, er, business. Capishe?"
"I think they understand, Mr. Ferrall," aid Rouge coolly. "Personally, I'd like to get this job over with as soon as possible, so let's get down to business. Who wants to go first?"
Silence.
Rouge sighed in an exasperated way. "Fine, we'll do this my way. Eeny, meeny, miny… you. Soda nose." She jabbed her forefinger at me. "You're up."
Her icy turquoise eyes were hard and unwavering and she gave no indication that we had ever met. I didn't really have any other choice than to follow her into the dingy meeting room. I had only ever been in here once or twice before- I'm not one for sitting still and listening to some schmuck prattle on and on about recruitment or strategies for cheating on their taxes or whatever it is they discuss.
Rouge took a seat next to me, folding her hands in front of her and surveying me coldly. A blank clipboard sat to her right along with a pen. Suddenly I felt self-conscious. I wished that I could think of something to break the ice… or at least had on a decent shirt.
Turns out I didn't need to start the conversation because Rouge had that bit handled. After glaring at me for about a minute, she stood up sharply and banged her fists on the table, getting up in my face and glowering at me.
"Alright punk, whaddaya want?" she snarled, low and dangerous. We were less than two inches apart and I could smell her breath. Chocolate and wintergreen mint with a hint of cinnamon, if you were wondering.
"What are you talking about? You're the one who wanted to see me, angel." I said, a sly smile creeping up onto my face.
"Don't play dumb with me. And don't call me angel."
"Sure thing… angel."
Rouge's nostrils flared and I thought she was gonna slug me, but I was wrong, thank Chaos. I don't think I could take getting beat up twice in one day.
"You said last week that you were trying to find me me. Why?" she demanded.
"I told you, I found you by accident."
"Before that, you said that you had been trying to find me for a week. Now tell it to me straight, dirtbag- What do you want?"
Sharp, this one. "You really wanna know?"
"No, I'm asking for a friend. Of course I wanna know, stupid."
"Okay, so here's the deal- see, I met this weird gypsy lady, and she told me that the only way I would avoid becoming a balding, depressed potential murder victim is if the most awesome, kick-butt girl I know has a fun night out with me. Wanna help me not become bald, depressed, and potentially murdered?"
Her mouth dropped a little bit and I could tell that I had taken her aback. Something about her reaction seemed to unlock a door of sorts in her mind, and suddenly I could hear her thoughts racing and her emotions going haywire. She was furious… she was confused… she was pleased… she was enraged at herself for being pleased.
Her jaw hardened and the steely look in her eyes had returned. "You disgust me."
"No, you're cuter."
Rouge's cheeks flushed and her body stiffened. Her shoulders were thrust back and I could see her take in her breath. She had no idea what to think of me, but it was clear that she found me oddly intriguing. Once again, the trademark Maniac charm has worked its magic.
She stood abruptly, knocking back her chair and strutting to the door. She slammed it open, a shade passing over her features.
"We're done here," she said stiffly. "Kindly go get one of your little friends for the next interview. Now."
"You got it, angel face," I answered cheerfully, winking at her. Swaggering out the door and grinning, I felt one last wave of emotion from Rouge: frustrated, embittered attraction.
I'd call that an unqualified success.
And we're done! See, I told you Manic wasn't such an idiot. But you didn't believe me. Tsk, tsk.
Review, please!
Okay, I do need to say that whenever I read these Manic chapters for the first time, I'm literally laughing so hard that sometimes I cry. So I really hope that you guys enjoyed this chapter and look! Manic can read Rouge! (well sort of…)