a lion's work hours are only when he's hungry
WHO: Trowa, Heero, The Bike.
WHERE: The Wingboys' apartment, and where-ever they might go after.
WHEN: Backlogged to January 25, late at night.
WARNINGS: Probably none?
SUMMARY: Boys and their machines.
FORMAT: Whichever~
The black and dark-green motorcycle was a little worn-looking, yes--something he'd chosen on purpose, to prevent it catching too much attention--but still very sleek and clean. It was his main mode of transportation, and he very much believed in keeping one's things in fine working order. It wasn't quite to him what Heavyarms was--would be again. No, of course it wasn't. But the bike gave him the opportunity for escape... from battle, from danger... from life. Hours on the open road from one job to another, spent in silent contemplation, the leather jacket he'd picked up warm and heavy in the late winter cold.
The engine rumbled a bit as he pulled into the parking lot for the apartment building, then shut it off. There wasn't any need to lock it up--he had a tracker on it, and would know if it was being moved in any way.
Trowa trudged through the slushy remnants of the last snowfall that covered the ground, pulling his helmet off and tucking it under one arm, wondering if he should have advised the other boy to at least get a hold of somewhat proper riding clothes. Well, Heero could just borrow the helmet. He seemed indestructible enough in their own world, in any case.
The walk through the halls wasn't too long; he remembered it from his first visit one night, and upon reaching the correct door, knocked twice--then stepped back and leaned against the opposite wall, waiting patiently.
WHERE: The Wingboys' apartment, and where-ever they might go after.
WHEN: Backlogged to January 25, late at night.
WARNINGS: Probably none?
SUMMARY: Boys and their machines.
FORMAT: Whichever~
The black and dark-green motorcycle was a little worn-looking, yes--something he'd chosen on purpose, to prevent it catching too much attention--but still very sleek and clean. It was his main mode of transportation, and he very much believed in keeping one's things in fine working order. It wasn't quite to him what Heavyarms was--would be again. No, of course it wasn't. But the bike gave him the opportunity for escape... from battle, from danger... from life. Hours on the open road from one job to another, spent in silent contemplation, the leather jacket he'd picked up warm and heavy in the late winter cold.
The engine rumbled a bit as he pulled into the parking lot for the apartment building, then shut it off. There wasn't any need to lock it up--he had a tracker on it, and would know if it was being moved in any way.
Trowa trudged through the slushy remnants of the last snowfall that covered the ground, pulling his helmet off and tucking it under one arm, wondering if he should have advised the other boy to at least get a hold of somewhat proper riding clothes. Well, Heero could just borrow the helmet. He seemed indestructible enough in their own world, in any case.
The walk through the halls wasn't too long; he remembered it from his first visit one night, and upon reaching the correct door, knocked twice--then stepped back and leaned against the opposite wall, waiting patiently.