Post by Deleted on Nov 17, 2013 22:43:12 GMT -5
Nicky Knuckles wiped his hands on the oil-stained rag that was typically perched on the cusp of his rear pocket. Standing before his motorcycle, he knew that the job was done. The tune-up was complete. All that was left to do was to take it for a spin.
Retrieving his helmet from the nearby rack, Nicky saddled the bike and lifted the stand before releasing the throttle, squeezing the clutch, and kicking the bike down into first. Revving the bike, Nick gave the machine some throttle and released the clutch before rolling out of his garage. With a flick of his foot he kicked the bike past neutral and into second gear before tearing down the street and shifting upwards at the peak of each gear.
----
The throaty purr of his bike calmed as he came to an intersection. A car was already stopped perpendicular to him, waiting for its turn. He saw it but paid no mind to it as the pump of his heart and the buzz in his bones became one with the bike on which he rode. So far, the bike was acing its stress test.
----
Backing up, Nick parked his motorcycle at an angle to the curb. He hadn't planned on stopping, but something caught his eye. A fuss at the end of the block was gathering a larger flock with each moment that passed. Marines were there, forcing their way through the crowd, which was apparently blocked-off before it could get too close to whatever had happened.
After setting his helmet down on the saddle of his bike Nick made his way through the droves of people all rushing to see what had happened. He already knew, though. It was another dark night in the industrial civilization that was Dauntaun, where the good and poor died and the rich and corrupt thrived. And, like usual, the Marines were the first on the scene. Imagine that.
----
"She was caught stealing! I-I had to; She was getting away!"
A bumbling Marine was sweating bullets as his commanding officer jumped down his throat. A girl barely into her double digits was sprawled out, still being examined by the military police.
"So, since you couldn't catch her, you shot her. Being a Marine entitles you to that, right?"
The rookie marine looked down at his feet.
"Don't look there. Look here. We're the marines. We protect these people. All of them."
"But she was stealing!" Now he was pleading more than explaining.
"A crime worthy of death, naturally."
The rookie swallowed hard. His commanding officer gestured to the military police, who proceeded to cuff the rookie.
----
Nicky was perched forward on his bike, resting his crossed forearms atop the handle bars. In all his life he'd never seen a legitimate marine. What he'd seen of them were hired guns, killers, mercenaries, using a bastardization of "justice" to line their pockets and pass their time.
But this guy... whoever this guy was, he knew justice. It wasn't the words that he said but the heart behind them. It was something palpable, something you could feel in the air. Nicky knew it the second he heard it, and so did that rookie. Were there other marines like that, or was he an anomaly? How many of them were content to be the mindless pawns of a corrupt World Government, and how many were actually there to protect the innocent people?
Nick reflected on the night his life was redefined. With his parents dead and carted off, he was left to wake up from his shooting at the hands of the marines with a lone officer to greet him. The mysterious agent told Nicky that there are those that see justice as a malleable thing... that those in charge define justice, whether one looks at it on a grand scale like the World Government, or something specific, such as three people in a room. He also explained that those people are wrong.
Justice is black and white. There's right and there's wrong. These things aren't decided by what we're told, but by what we feel. If you have to justify something to yourself, it's because you know it's wrong. Knowing right from wrong is the same as knowing whether to breathe or not. Even when that decision is hard or taken out of your hands, there's still a right and a wrong choice.
At the time Nick was barely functional - hell, barely alive - and he surely wasn't paying much attention, let alone giving this man's lecture the attention it deserved. But now, and only now, was he realizing that it wasn't a lecture, but insight, wisdom, advice.
Between bar fights, chop shops, and drunken binges, Nicky had spent his entire adult life - all twenty-five years as a good-for-nothing biker and a petty criminal. His life, by most accounts, was finished. His family and his friends were dead, he lived day-to-day and most of that was intoxicated, and the bruises on his knuckles never quite had a chance to heal. It was always ever going in one direction, the one he thought was right, that he thought he'd wanted, that the marines and the Tenryuubito had forced onto him. Only now could he see...
----
Having made arrangements to lock his tools and his bike in a storage container at the docks (until he knew where to ship them), Nicky knew everything was prepared. He had nothing left on Dauntaun to take care of, save for one thing.
Sitting across from a desk in a well-lit-but-dingy-nonetheless office, Nicholas Torregross flicked his signature across the last of the required paperwork and shook the hand of the man across from him. The paperwork was added to a thick stack of sheets just like it and Nick was shown to the door with orders to arrive at a dock on the north side of the island first thing tomorrow.
He was a marine now.
Retrieving his helmet from the nearby rack, Nicky saddled the bike and lifted the stand before releasing the throttle, squeezing the clutch, and kicking the bike down into first. Revving the bike, Nick gave the machine some throttle and released the clutch before rolling out of his garage. With a flick of his foot he kicked the bike past neutral and into second gear before tearing down the street and shifting upwards at the peak of each gear.
----
The throaty purr of his bike calmed as he came to an intersection. A car was already stopped perpendicular to him, waiting for its turn. He saw it but paid no mind to it as the pump of his heart and the buzz in his bones became one with the bike on which he rode. So far, the bike was acing its stress test.
----
Backing up, Nick parked his motorcycle at an angle to the curb. He hadn't planned on stopping, but something caught his eye. A fuss at the end of the block was gathering a larger flock with each moment that passed. Marines were there, forcing their way through the crowd, which was apparently blocked-off before it could get too close to whatever had happened.
After setting his helmet down on the saddle of his bike Nick made his way through the droves of people all rushing to see what had happened. He already knew, though. It was another dark night in the industrial civilization that was Dauntaun, where the good and poor died and the rich and corrupt thrived. And, like usual, the Marines were the first on the scene. Imagine that.
----
"She was caught stealing! I-I had to; She was getting away!"
A bumbling Marine was sweating bullets as his commanding officer jumped down his throat. A girl barely into her double digits was sprawled out, still being examined by the military police.
"So, since you couldn't catch her, you shot her. Being a Marine entitles you to that, right?"
The rookie marine looked down at his feet.
"Don't look there. Look here. We're the marines. We protect these people. All of them."
"But she was stealing!" Now he was pleading more than explaining.
"A crime worthy of death, naturally."
The rookie swallowed hard. His commanding officer gestured to the military police, who proceeded to cuff the rookie.
----
Nicky was perched forward on his bike, resting his crossed forearms atop the handle bars. In all his life he'd never seen a legitimate marine. What he'd seen of them were hired guns, killers, mercenaries, using a bastardization of "justice" to line their pockets and pass their time.
But this guy... whoever this guy was, he knew justice. It wasn't the words that he said but the heart behind them. It was something palpable, something you could feel in the air. Nicky knew it the second he heard it, and so did that rookie. Were there other marines like that, or was he an anomaly? How many of them were content to be the mindless pawns of a corrupt World Government, and how many were actually there to protect the innocent people?
Nick reflected on the night his life was redefined. With his parents dead and carted off, he was left to wake up from his shooting at the hands of the marines with a lone officer to greet him. The mysterious agent told Nicky that there are those that see justice as a malleable thing... that those in charge define justice, whether one looks at it on a grand scale like the World Government, or something specific, such as three people in a room. He also explained that those people are wrong.
Justice is black and white. There's right and there's wrong. These things aren't decided by what we're told, but by what we feel. If you have to justify something to yourself, it's because you know it's wrong. Knowing right from wrong is the same as knowing whether to breathe or not. Even when that decision is hard or taken out of your hands, there's still a right and a wrong choice.
At the time Nick was barely functional - hell, barely alive - and he surely wasn't paying much attention, let alone giving this man's lecture the attention it deserved. But now, and only now, was he realizing that it wasn't a lecture, but insight, wisdom, advice.
Between bar fights, chop shops, and drunken binges, Nicky had spent his entire adult life - all twenty-five years as a good-for-nothing biker and a petty criminal. His life, by most accounts, was finished. His family and his friends were dead, he lived day-to-day and most of that was intoxicated, and the bruises on his knuckles never quite had a chance to heal. It was always ever going in one direction, the one he thought was right, that he thought he'd wanted, that the marines and the Tenryuubito had forced onto him. Only now could he see...
----
Having made arrangements to lock his tools and his bike in a storage container at the docks (until he knew where to ship them), Nicky knew everything was prepared. He had nothing left on Dauntaun to take care of, save for one thing.
Sitting across from a desk in a well-lit-but-dingy-nonetheless office, Nicholas Torregross flicked his signature across the last of the required paperwork and shook the hand of the man across from him. The paperwork was added to a thick stack of sheets just like it and Nick was shown to the door with orders to arrive at a dock on the north side of the island first thing tomorrow.
He was a marine now.