Metal Whispers
Title: Over-Dressed Trespasser
Word Count: 1511
Author's Note: This section ends somewhat abruptly (sorry for that), because I really wasn't in the mood to launch into what turns out to be a massive friggin argument between Keelin and Dax. Just... yeah no.
The Commodore was a glittering nest of lights near the pier, a semi-circle of squat brick townhomes with enormous windows that stared out at the water. They pulled into a parking lot filled with imports and sportscars that hugged the pavement, her bright red, super-practical sedan looking like the ugly duckling beside Daxen's sleek navy convertible. Keelin rolled down her window and took deep breaths of the cool sea air, eyeing the houses curiously.
"He lives here?" she asked.
"Nope," Theo said casually, shifting the car into park and pulling the emergency brake. "I drove you an hour across town for nothing." He smirked impishly at her when she shot him a dirty look over her shoulder. "Yeah, he lives here. Why? What were you expecting?"
"I don't know," she said truthfully. "Something a little more... high profile?"
"Penthouses and hookers?" he suggested.
"You're a pig."
"Don't let the artsy-hipster look fool you. Half the women in the city have been here for a nightcap." When she twisted and glared at him again, he just shrugged. "Just saying. Could be a good night for you."
"Theo..."
"Right, right, you're just getting your keys and leaving, of course." He waggled his eyebrows at her and smirked again. "Guess you should get going, then! You know, before that lovely fragrance wears off." Leaning over, he made a dramatic show of sniffing the air beside her neck. "Mmm. Sexy. Do you always wear perfume, or only when you're driving?"
"You are impossible," she huffed, pressing her hand to his face and shoving him away. His trademark hyena laugh trickled out from behind her palm as he fell back into his seat. "Thanks for the ride, dork," she said, opening her door. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"By the way, nice dress!" he called, just as she closed the door on another peal of his laughter.
He left her standing in the lot, glaring at the back of his car as he drove away, the soft wind coming in off the bay swirling the hem of her dress around her knees. Putting on something nice had seemed like a good idea, initially, when she was expecting Theo to drop her off at some fancy condo tower guarded by doormen who would turn he away for looking like a street urchin. Plus, Daxen always managed to make her feel underdressed, which frustrated her to no end because until she met him, she didn't have anything in her closet aside from jeans and t-shirts and had damn well liked it that way. Now she was standing in front of his house in a halter dress the saleslady had insisted was the same color as her eyes, some crocheted vintage-style white cardigan slung over her shoulders (which made her feel as if she was wearing one of her grandmother's doilies), thin-as-paper flats on her feet, clutching a purse because she felt obligated to carry one, and she felt like an absolute idiot.
Sticking out like a sore thumb was nothing new to her, but it was different when she felt so damn uncomfortable.
Sighing, she unzipped her purse and looked inside at her second set of car keys, knowing it woudl be so easy to just get in the car and go home. She could drive away and call Daxen tomorrow, ask him to give her the keys at the gala on the weekend. She could call Theo for some company on the drive, listen to some ribbing about how she chickened out, and spend the rest of her night sitting on her couch and cursing herself for not being brave enough to knock on that door.
Of course, Theo would never believe her. He would think she was trying to cover something up, and no doubt the entire damn mech bay would know about it by tomorrow morning. And with the way Morrigan loved to gossip, Aria would know about it before Keelin even woke up, and then there'd be no stopping the teasing.
Sighing, she stared at Daxen's front door, willing herself to just ignore all of it and walk to her car, but she knew she couldn't. Truthfully, it wasn't like she even needed the car. There'd been no reason to drag Theo across the city for it.
Just admit that you miss him, a quiet, nagging part of her brain told her. Things sure haven't been the same without him around.
That much was true. Training went without a hitch, no silliness or dramatics or playful competition, and usually finished in a third of the time. Her cockpit was quiet save for the occasional conversation between herself and Aria, maybe a few minutes of chatter from Theo between exercises. It was as if Daxen's absence had left them all with the inability to speak, as if his punishment was a punishment for everyone. She was so used to telling him how irritating he was, and so used to being frustrated at his scores being consistently just those few points over her own, she'd forgotten how much she actually enjoyed his ridiculous comments and verbal sparring. Just his way of keeping her sane, she realized. His way of reminding her that she wasn't really alone in this.
The door was right in front of her when she shook herself out of her thoughts - while her mind had struggled with either going home or saying hello, her body had just gone on auto-pilot - and she rubbed her hands nervously on the thighs of her dress before she finally rang the bell. She heard a distant chime, drowned out by the heavy thud of bass that echoed through the thick wood. Straining to listen for approaching footsteps, she traced the millworked edges of the door with her fingers and tried not to tap her foot impatiently. After about twenty seconds passed, she nervously pressed the white button again, hearing the chime a second time. Again, no footsteps, and her fingers slid from the edges of the door to the brass doorknob.
Whoa, whoa, WHOA, her brain snapped. What the hell are you doing?
It's not going to be open, she thought to herself. Dax is crazy but he's not stu...
She twisted the knob, and the door swung open - the slam of guitar and bass exploded into the night air around her, startling her out of her shock that the door was even unlocked. Spinning on the step, looking for the telltale lights of pissed off neighbors, she quickly jumped into the entranceway and yanked the door closed behind her. A moment later she realized what she'd done, and with a groan of frustration conveniently buried in a squalling guitar solo, she slapped a hand over her eyes and slumped back against the door.
"Nice job, genius," she muttered, peeking between her fingers. The noise seemed to be coming from the second floor, pouring down the twisting metal staircase at the far end of the hallway. She hesitated a moment, trying to decide if this was the best time to cut her losses and leave before her captain decided she was some kind of criminal, and again her body decided before her brain could process anything and started to talk down the hallway toward the stairs.
Sure, the exterior of the building had surprised her - who would have ever pictured Daxen living in these trendy, retro-style townhomes? - but the interior downright baffled her. She'd been expecting something as sophisticated and pretentious as the polished exterior Daxen presented to the world, but instead, the townhouse was as cluttered and homely as her own apart, save one major difference - the artwork.
Everywhere she looked, on every surface and every wall and in every corner, there were paintings. Some were across stretched canvas or directly on the walls, but most were painted directly on large and irregularly-shaped pieces of wood, broad streaks of color and fine details mixing to form abstract, almost eerie compositions. She stopped to admire some of them in the soft light, reaching up to touch the ridges of thick acrylic paint, examining the colors. She knew nothing about art, and wasn't even sure what to make of the pieces, but there was an odd, insane beauty to it. One piece in particular caught her attention, a three-foot-square wood block hanging from the exposed rafters by thin cables, coated black and streaked with brilliant shades of emerald and jade. Thin, irregular lines of silver were etched across the exposed black, and when she leaned in closer she saw that the lines were actually careful italics:
GRA-87259-03AILIM-ARIA
Repeated over and over, the delicate cursive swooped and spun across the black background, overlapping and intersecting threads of silver listing Aria's unit and program numbers, edging the heavy green of her colors.
Upstairs the song ended, plunging the house into a few seconds of silence before starting again, just as loud and obnoxious, and it drew her attention away from the painting and toward the stairwell.
Word Count: 1511
Author's Note: This section ends somewhat abruptly (sorry for that), because I really wasn't in the mood to launch into what turns out to be a massive friggin argument between Keelin and Dax. Just... yeah no.
The Commodore was a glittering nest of lights near the pier, a semi-circle of squat brick townhomes with enormous windows that stared out at the water. They pulled into a parking lot filled with imports and sportscars that hugged the pavement, her bright red, super-practical sedan looking like the ugly duckling beside Daxen's sleek navy convertible. Keelin rolled down her window and took deep breaths of the cool sea air, eyeing the houses curiously.
"He lives here?" she asked.
"Nope," Theo said casually, shifting the car into park and pulling the emergency brake. "I drove you an hour across town for nothing." He smirked impishly at her when she shot him a dirty look over her shoulder. "Yeah, he lives here. Why? What were you expecting?"
"I don't know," she said truthfully. "Something a little more... high profile?"
"Penthouses and hookers?" he suggested.
"You're a pig."
"Don't let the artsy-hipster look fool you. Half the women in the city have been here for a nightcap." When she twisted and glared at him again, he just shrugged. "Just saying. Could be a good night for you."
"Theo..."
"Right, right, you're just getting your keys and leaving, of course." He waggled his eyebrows at her and smirked again. "Guess you should get going, then! You know, before that lovely fragrance wears off." Leaning over, he made a dramatic show of sniffing the air beside her neck. "Mmm. Sexy. Do you always wear perfume, or only when you're driving?"
"You are impossible," she huffed, pressing her hand to his face and shoving him away. His trademark hyena laugh trickled out from behind her palm as he fell back into his seat. "Thanks for the ride, dork," she said, opening her door. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"By the way, nice dress!" he called, just as she closed the door on another peal of his laughter.
He left her standing in the lot, glaring at the back of his car as he drove away, the soft wind coming in off the bay swirling the hem of her dress around her knees. Putting on something nice had seemed like a good idea, initially, when she was expecting Theo to drop her off at some fancy condo tower guarded by doormen who would turn he away for looking like a street urchin. Plus, Daxen always managed to make her feel underdressed, which frustrated her to no end because until she met him, she didn't have anything in her closet aside from jeans and t-shirts and had damn well liked it that way. Now she was standing in front of his house in a halter dress the saleslady had insisted was the same color as her eyes, some crocheted vintage-style white cardigan slung over her shoulders (which made her feel as if she was wearing one of her grandmother's doilies), thin-as-paper flats on her feet, clutching a purse because she felt obligated to carry one, and she felt like an absolute idiot.
Sticking out like a sore thumb was nothing new to her, but it was different when she felt so damn uncomfortable.
Sighing, she unzipped her purse and looked inside at her second set of car keys, knowing it woudl be so easy to just get in the car and go home. She could drive away and call Daxen tomorrow, ask him to give her the keys at the gala on the weekend. She could call Theo for some company on the drive, listen to some ribbing about how she chickened out, and spend the rest of her night sitting on her couch and cursing herself for not being brave enough to knock on that door.
Of course, Theo would never believe her. He would think she was trying to cover something up, and no doubt the entire damn mech bay would know about it by tomorrow morning. And with the way Morrigan loved to gossip, Aria would know about it before Keelin even woke up, and then there'd be no stopping the teasing.
Sighing, she stared at Daxen's front door, willing herself to just ignore all of it and walk to her car, but she knew she couldn't. Truthfully, it wasn't like she even needed the car. There'd been no reason to drag Theo across the city for it.
Just admit that you miss him, a quiet, nagging part of her brain told her. Things sure haven't been the same without him around.
That much was true. Training went without a hitch, no silliness or dramatics or playful competition, and usually finished in a third of the time. Her cockpit was quiet save for the occasional conversation between herself and Aria, maybe a few minutes of chatter from Theo between exercises. It was as if Daxen's absence had left them all with the inability to speak, as if his punishment was a punishment for everyone. She was so used to telling him how irritating he was, and so used to being frustrated at his scores being consistently just those few points over her own, she'd forgotten how much she actually enjoyed his ridiculous comments and verbal sparring. Just his way of keeping her sane, she realized. His way of reminding her that she wasn't really alone in this.
The door was right in front of her when she shook herself out of her thoughts - while her mind had struggled with either going home or saying hello, her body had just gone on auto-pilot - and she rubbed her hands nervously on the thighs of her dress before she finally rang the bell. She heard a distant chime, drowned out by the heavy thud of bass that echoed through the thick wood. Straining to listen for approaching footsteps, she traced the millworked edges of the door with her fingers and tried not to tap her foot impatiently. After about twenty seconds passed, she nervously pressed the white button again, hearing the chime a second time. Again, no footsteps, and her fingers slid from the edges of the door to the brass doorknob.
Whoa, whoa, WHOA, her brain snapped. What the hell are you doing?
It's not going to be open, she thought to herself. Dax is crazy but he's not stu...
She twisted the knob, and the door swung open - the slam of guitar and bass exploded into the night air around her, startling her out of her shock that the door was even unlocked. Spinning on the step, looking for the telltale lights of pissed off neighbors, she quickly jumped into the entranceway and yanked the door closed behind her. A moment later she realized what she'd done, and with a groan of frustration conveniently buried in a squalling guitar solo, she slapped a hand over her eyes and slumped back against the door.
"Nice job, genius," she muttered, peeking between her fingers. The noise seemed to be coming from the second floor, pouring down the twisting metal staircase at the far end of the hallway. She hesitated a moment, trying to decide if this was the best time to cut her losses and leave before her captain decided she was some kind of criminal, and again her body decided before her brain could process anything and started to talk down the hallway toward the stairs.
Sure, the exterior of the building had surprised her - who would have ever pictured Daxen living in these trendy, retro-style townhomes? - but the interior downright baffled her. She'd been expecting something as sophisticated and pretentious as the polished exterior Daxen presented to the world, but instead, the townhouse was as cluttered and homely as her own apart, save one major difference - the artwork.
Everywhere she looked, on every surface and every wall and in every corner, there were paintings. Some were across stretched canvas or directly on the walls, but most were painted directly on large and irregularly-shaped pieces of wood, broad streaks of color and fine details mixing to form abstract, almost eerie compositions. She stopped to admire some of them in the soft light, reaching up to touch the ridges of thick acrylic paint, examining the colors. She knew nothing about art, and wasn't even sure what to make of the pieces, but there was an odd, insane beauty to it. One piece in particular caught her attention, a three-foot-square wood block hanging from the exposed rafters by thin cables, coated black and streaked with brilliant shades of emerald and jade. Thin, irregular lines of silver were etched across the exposed black, and when she leaned in closer she saw that the lines were actually careful italics:
GRA-87259-03AILIM-ARIA
Repeated over and over, the delicate cursive swooped and spun across the black background, overlapping and intersecting threads of silver listing Aria's unit and program numbers, edging the heavy green of her colors.
Upstairs the song ended, plunging the house into a few seconds of silence before starting again, just as loud and obnoxious, and it drew her attention away from the painting and toward the stairwell.