Bubblegum Crisis Fan Fiction ❯ Bubblegum Cross ❯ Black Rain ( Chapter 2 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Chapter 2. Black Rain

The rain came down suddenly with a pounding force onto the pavement and
awnings as vendors and pedestrians alike scattered for shelter from the
tumult. The warm water slowly collected in dark pools and eventually
overflowed to be captured in the teeth of a rusting sewer grate
somewhere around the corner. The once clamorous street market quickly
emptied of activity except for the odd car moving quickly past the row
of grimy shops and nightclubs. As the downpour subsided into a steady
shower the vendors stood on the doorsteps of their packed shops and
waited for the soaked customers to make their way to the checkouts. The
rain was good sometimes.

But the rain that had fallen on Mega Tokyo for many years now was also
spurious. All you had to do was hold your hand out in the rain for
awhile and you came back with a hand covered in wet, black grit;
evidence of the city's violent geological past. Buildings had been
demolished and resurrected. New buildings had been commissioned. Sewers
had been rerouted. Houses were rebuilt. Mega Tokyo had risen once more
from the ashes to await the next earthquake. No-one disagreed that it
could happen again.

Outside the 'Hot Legs' nightclub, a crowd was beginning to shove forward
through the single door entrance to avoid the rain. Among the shifting
throng, an annoyed brunette dressed in worn, red, biker's leathers, and
still wearing her helmet, began to regret this excursion. Standing on
her tiptoes, she caught a glimpse of the door and its intimidating
attendant. Large crossed arms perched on a barrel chest were usually
enough visual warning for most patrons not to get unruly. This night was
different. A new band was playing their first show at 'The Legs' and
their music was doing well with the underground crowd. A sure indicator
that the band would probably not play here many more times before some
big-time record company snatched them away. That meant that everyone
wanted to see them now, before it was too late.

The brunette was about to yell some motivating words at the attendant
but reconsidered. No sense pissing the guy off just yet. Might as well
wait until I'm closer to the door, she thought. The lineup continued
filing in without incident until the still helmeted brunette arrived at
the door.

"Let's see some ID," spat the attendant casually.

The brunette replied in an equally casual tone, "Uh, well . . . hmm. It
seems I've left it in my other suit."

The experienced bouncer had heard all the lines before and the look on
his face said that this lame line was not going to work either. Chick or
no chick. "No ID, no show. Beat it."

As the bouncer reached for the woman's arm to remove her from the line,
he was interrupted by an elbow, deep in the stomach. The bouncer
expelled the contents of his lungs and doubled over in pain. He had not
seen the brunette's quick movement but he was definitely feeling its
result. The woman removed her helmet and shook her long brown mane as
the bouncer sat down on the rain-soaked steps trying to reestablish his
breathing pattern. He looked up and gasped his words as he recognized
his assailant. "Pr . . . Pris . . . Priss. I shoulda . . . known. Gawd .
. . damn bitch."

Priss bent her knees and extended a hand to the bouncer who was
beginning to recover. "C'mon Clarence, get up ya big baby."

The bouncer's face flushed red at hearing his real name out loud.
Giggles and snickers reverberated throughout the front of the line.
Clarence's massive fist closed gently around Priss' hand as she helped
him to his feet.

Clarence spoke, still having problems breathing, "Where . . . the hell .
. . have you been? Things . . . haven't been the same without The
Replicants playin' here. This is the first band to draw a crowd . . .
since you disappeared."

People in the back of the line began to push forward. Clarence sensed
the surge and turned to the crowd, "Fuck off you assholes in the back!
Don't make me come up there!"

Priss could not help but grin, "You haven't changed a bit Clarence."

The bouncer smiled sarcastically at Priss while massaging his sore
stomach and shoved her gently through the doorway, "Get in there,
you..."


'The Legs' was not one of Mega Tokyo's fanciest night spots but that was
its charm. Worn wooden chairs and tables exuded a comforting warmth that
reminded new patrons of a friend's basement at a party that people still
talk about. The air inside was about ten degrees higher than outside.
Leather and denim clad patrons milled about the bar area shouting their
orders to the barkeep, trying to be heard over a disc of The Replicant's
first album as it pummeled the smoke-filled interior. Priss entered and
made a beeline for the bathroom to deal with her hair.

The helmet had provided protection from the rain until Clarence got in
the way. She could forgive him though. How many times had he rescued her
from some overzealous fan in the front row when The Reps used to play
here? He wasn't the smartest guy she'd ever met but she'd learned to
trust him with her life. As she entered the restroom she wondered where
she'd be if he hadn't been there that night. Everybody needed someone to
trust.

The band had taken the stage when Priss left the perfume-filled confines
of the women's restrooms to find a spot somewhere among the now packed
house. The first guitar chords shot violently from the P.A. like gunfire
but to Priss they were intoxicating. Wiping her hand on her sleeve, she
raised a condensation coated glass of ale to her dry lips and drank in
the combination of bitter fluid and distortion laden melody. Closing her
eyes for a moment, she was drawn instinctively to the primal growls of
the guitar. Each note and chord were executed with conviction and
honesty. Although distorted, each note of each chord could be heard
clearly. Here was someone who cared about their tone. About their music.
About their sound.

Song after song embraced her until the set neared its end. Priss closed
her eyes again as the final tune wound down to a crescendo of guitar,
bass and drums. The singer thanked the audience for their support and
their cheering rose above the instruments. Suddenly the bassist and
drummer checked their attack and the guitar cut through the space like a
knife. The guitar player struck a string with the edge of his pick
producing an artificial harmonic that soared high and clear. A deft
wrist movement produced a soulful vibrato that gave the dying note new
life.

When Priss opened her eyes, she found her sight-line to the stage was
clear. A dark silhouette stood in front of the spotlight shaking his
guitar fluidly in an effort to wring out its last ounces of feedback.
For a moment the sound of a single, sustained note penetrated the thick
air.

Priss stared hard at the backlit guitar player, in awe of the power he
commanded over her at that moment. Finally the note fell and died and
the band erupted in a synchronized fit of power chords and cymbal
crashes. Priss began to push past the applauding patrons to get closer
to the stage. The guitar player was on his knees now, with his axe held
high like an offering to the gods of cacophony. His dark eyes were
tightly closed forcing his ears to become the only source of sensory
input. With one last slashing motion across the fretboard the song ended
and the guitar player slowly rose to his feet.

Priss continued to press forward through the crowd. She could see the
band members wave to the audience, and then make their way to the
backstage door. Mild panic began to set in. She had to reach that door.
She had to...

What was wrong with her? Why did she feel so anxious? Between her desire
to talk to the guitar player and her struggle to reach the door she
hadn't really thought about why she was doing this. She just felt
drawn...

Upon reaching the door she was met by a bouncer who had a better memory
than Clarence and was let through to the backstage area. The door
slammed shut behind her, and suddenly memories flooded back to her of
after-show parties and friends long gone. Why had she quit the music
scene anyway? Oh yeah. The record company. Manipulative bastards. If it
hadn't been for that one A & R guy maybe . . . Sure, that's what they
all say. The Reps had a good run but their time was up. Someone else had
come up the charts hot on their asses. The record company slowly pushed
The Replicants aside giving them less and less of their time and money.
The hard part wasn't getting there. It was staying there once you'd made
it.

Priss surveyed the surprisingly smoke-free room and spotted the drummer
and bass player talking to two over-madeup groupies in tight leather
skirts and matching, red leather jackets. In a darkened corner the
singer sat on an old, beat-up couch, hunched over a giggling blonde
perched on his lap. Other band-leeches wandered the hallways looking for
a fix while suited industry types congratulated each other for another
great show. Priss peered through the murk to see a black leather-clad
figure with wet, black hair and a guitar case under his arm push on the
exit door.

Street light flooded into the back of the room for a moment revealing
the guitar player's face as he stepped into the rear alley. Priss edged
past the partiers, stopping only to untangle herself from the overly
friendly arms of amorous roadies. As her hand touched the metal exit
door, she heard a familiar sound. A muffled thrumming as a bike roared
to life in the alley beyond. She pushed the lock bar and heaved on the
door.

Exhaust fumes met her first as she stepped into the rain soaked alley. A
light drizzle descended from the night sky making the cool outside air a
little thick to breathe. Ten feet away a gleaming, black motorcycle
idled patiently while its rider adjusted his helmet. Priss stood just
inside the doorway still holding the open door, wondering what to do
next. The guitar player was busy tightening a strap that held his guitar
case in place when he finally noticed Priss.

They regarded each other silently, neither one sure who would speak
first. Priss fought within herself, 'Say something stupid. He's gonna
think you're some silly tramp.'

The guitar player stared at the woman holding the door and thought for a
moment that he recognized her. He was about to speak when he saw her
face darken from her internal struggle. It was a look that he had seen
many times recently. He shook his head and pulled down his visor. 'Just
another annoying groupie.' Reaching the throttle, he released the brake
and pushed off down the alley.

Priss watched helplessly as the bike bore its rider to the end of the
alley and then around the corner, leaving her standing alone amid the
evaporating exhaust fumes that rose slowly and vanished into the dark
above. Anger seeped into her brain and took control for a moment. The
heavy metal door slammed shut. Garbage cans went sprawling across the
alley's span. Card-board and plastic flew aimlessly into the air
accompanied by cursing and grunts.

As the unfeeling objects came to rest and the anger let go, all that it
left behind were tears. How long had she lived like this? Why did she
hesitate? She could stand on a stage in front of hundreds of strangers
but she couldn't just walk up and . . . Priss' shoulders felt heavy as
she began to walk down the alley to find her own bike. It was getting
harder to face each day by herself. She had her friends Nene, Sylia and
Linna but they couldn't fill the emptiness. She tried to define what she
needed as she ambled through the dark passageway. Her heels clicked and
echoed off the high brick walls making her suddenly aware of her own
feet. And someone else's.

She turned sharply and scanned the alley's shadows for the intruder. At
the moment she was more annoyed at having her thoughts interrupted than
the path to her bike, that stood waiting not twenty feet away. Seeing
no-one, she faced forward again and picked up her pace. Straddling the
bike she sighed and chided herself for being so emotional. As the
excuses emerged for her behavior so did the intruders. With her key half
inserted into the ignition the attack came without warning from behind.

The first attacker came at her with arms extended, knocking her off the
bike onto the hard, wet pavement. The impact jarred her spine sending
her right hand to awkwardly rub the source of the pain. The attackers
accomplice stepped around the bike and looked down at Priss with an evil
grin. As she pretended to rest for a moment the accomplice began to
speak, "Sorry babe, we need yer bike. Russell and I need a ride home.
You don't mind do ya?"

Russell grinned from his perch on the seat of her bike. Anger gripped
her brain again at the sight of the piece of shit on her precious
motoslave.

She was about to reply when the roar of an approaching motorcycle
reached their ears. The attackers turned toward the sound, and Priss
seized the opening. Closing her eyes, she stabbed out with her left hand
and grabbed the standing man's wet leather boot. The leg came forward as
Priss yanked hard, sending the man onto his back. She scrambled stiffly
to her feet as her opponent rolled on the ground, holding the back of
his head and moaning. Before Russell could react he was sent backwards
over the bike by a boot heel in the face.

Priss glanced at Russell's slow, swaying movements as he picked himself
up off the pavement and shook his head. To Russell's right, she suddenly
saw a figure in black leather stealing up behind the recovering bike
thief. She watched Russell turn slowly to meet the figure with a drunken
right cross that merely pushed air. The figure reacted quickly with two
hard blows to Russell's head that dropped him back to the ground.

With a faint grin, Priss turned back to her opponent. Her hand
absent-mindedly reached into her jacket to locate her gun but found it
missing. Frantically scanning the ground below her for the firearm, she
found it in the fumbling hands of the attacker who she'd dealt with
first. Before she could react the man's arm came down at her head. The
metal butt of the gun made brief contact, but hard enough to make her
head spin and send her to her knees. Priss fought the surging dizziness
for a moment, and then gave in, falling to the pavement on to her
stomach.

For a moment her view was clouded with a barrage of blurred images until
finally, the images cleared. She saw four boot-clad feet shuffling in
front of her as the gunman fought with the figure in black. Seconds
later the gunman dropped to the ground beside her, blood trickling from
his nose and upper lip. She closed her eyes as a sudden surge of pain
swept through her head. As the waves subsided she reopened her eyes. A
dark form was kneeling over her speaking softly, "Hey, you all right?
Ouch, you're gonna feel that in the morning. Okay, don't move. Blackie's
gonna take care of you."

She lay there for a few moments and relaxed, concentrating on the sound
of the soothing voice. Fatigue swept over her as the pain in her head
began to pound. She rolled her eyes and for a moment her vision clouded
over again. When it eventually cleared, her wandering sight revealed a
black motorcycle parked at the corner of the alley. The soft voice
continued to relax her until her eyes closed once more and darkness took
hold.

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