Categories > Original > Drama > Pocket Change
a/n: alright, before we get down and everything, I gotta fess up: This story is totally not an original.
Okay, it is, but not in all senses of the word. The characters don't belong to me at ALL- except for Joss. I've changed their names and appearances and taken a lot of liberties with them, but they'll never be my characters. This is just a story I wrote on a rainy day, bored and nostalgic. This is just a story of what could have been but couldn't, really, because we were all so young.
If you recognize any character- or, hell, the whole premise- than TALK TO ME, MAN! And if you recognize a character that is yours, lemme say sorry. Sorrysorrysorry. It's your character, but not. Your character as a doll to be used for my selfish whims as an attempt to curb my hungry notebook. I did try to keep some semblance of the original, though. Oh yea, I miss you.
Let's clear it up one last time before starting, shall we? Characters sans Joss = not mine, just being used by me.
Thanks,
noisee
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Pocket Change
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[01: /he's got a smile that charms me plenty/]
Everything changes. Skies get dark, grass grows yellow, people die. The one thing that never, ever, ever changes is the inn's cardinal rule: You don't fuck with Takeo.
"Go fuck yourself, man."
"Unlike yourself, I need not resort to self-service for such- primal urges."
He lights a cigarette; in all her life, Joss has never seen a day where he went without one. She thinks he was probably born with one dangling out of his mouth. As he brings it to his lips, he cocks a brow at the man before him. Arrogance paints his face. Of all the people who have looked arrogantly at Takeo Lyon, Chale Mancini is one of the only survivors.
"Yea?" Chale says around his cigarette. "Got a lady of the night waitin' for ya? Or do you just... take one?"
Chocolate eyes narrow. It occurs to Joss that the three of them all have brown eyes.
"I've never had the need to force myself upon anyone."
Chale snorts. "With a wrinkled old mug like yours? Bullshit."
Joss lets out a tiny sigh during the ensuing silence. Takeo stands on the left, high and foreboding. Contrary to Chale's remark, Takeo looks quite youthful. He has the regal air and handsome features of an aristocrat: high cheekbones, jet-black, chin-length hair, and striking, slanted, narrow eyes. His heavy-metal outfit- chains on his leather pants, matching wifebeater, combat boots- does nothing to snuff his royal aura, even as it reveals his pale warrior's physique, complete with dragon tattoos and battle scars.
Chale, on the other hand, is almost the inverse of the dark prince: his skin has a sun-kissed glow to it; his hair is fair and set in wild spikes. He's got the good looks of a rock star, and yet he is the one in a dress shirt and jeans- albeit worn-out and rumpled. His trainers are stained and nearing the point of falling apart. There's some blood on his earring- but not his own.
Joss has got one of his dress shirts on, her fingers barely peeking out of the wrinkled sleeves. She's also wearing an old, baggy pair of cargoes with suspenders hanging off her hips, forgotten. Her feet are clad in black-and-white AllStars, a birthday gift from Takeo. She dyed her hair that day; blonde streaks run with short ebon locks tied into high pigtails.
Chase tells her that she sometimes makes him feel like a pedophile, and they laugh. She's sixteen; he's eighteen. The only real old guy there is Takeo, but he's virtually immortal, so he doesn't count.
"Are they at it again?"
Into the scene enters the inn's proprietor, Edson Ryker. Where Joss has chopped her hair short, Edson's caramel locks are shaggy and low over his eyes. He's wearing jeans and a red-and-yellow striped scarf over his black longsleeved. She smiles at his ocean-blue eyes. This man is like her brother, despite all of their differences.
"Is the sky blue?" she replies dryly.
Edson grins nervously; he usually doesn't worry about the fighters, he worries about his inn. When it's Chale versus Takeo, he worries about Chale. Reassuringly, Joss leans back from her perch on the bar's counter and pats his head. She thinks he's taken on more than he can handle; no nineteen-year-old should be getting gray hairs over keeping his home.
"He'll be fine, Eddie," she says.
"Right," Edson nods, "he always is."
"Yup. He always is."
Chale catches Joss and Edson's conversation, vaguely aware of their unvoiced statement.
He'll be fine, he always is- thanks to Fiorel.
Fiorel. Takeo's beautiful, angelic daughter. Spawn of scum blessed with magic fingers. God knows why she's taken such a shine to him, but he's not complaining. She's got long, brown-and-honey curls, sultry green eyes, and curves in all the right places.
Absently, he notes the irony: Fiorel, the nurturing healer, is the voluptuous, seductive one, whereas Joss, the street-raised brat, is the one who blushes at him when he undresses.
He thinks Fiorel's using him to make her daddy mad. He thinks he doesn't mind.
He thinks Joss is going to get herself killed. He thinks she's too precious for death.
He thinks he has a thing for girls with streaks.
"You must have a death wish, Mancini," says Takeo Lyon.
/No kidding/, he muses, almost rolling his eyes. Every time he and Chale argue, they fight. Every time they fight, he gets his ass handed to him on a silver platter, with a festive sprig of mint.
"What's a person who doesn't want?" He mumbles, almost slurs.
Takeo's frown deepens.
"A corpse."
They lunge at each other and, after a flurry of thrown fists and fancy footwork, Chale Mancini lies in the settling dust. Without a word, Takeo leaves the inn.
Joss rushes to Chale's aid, Edson at her heels. She pops a cherry sucker into her mouth as she rummages in a white box; she turns to candy like he does cigarettes. He chuckles, but the force of Takeo's final attack seems to have snapped a rib. Just breathing is a tortuously painful act. Still, he hisses in pain when Joss rubs alcohol on the deep-ish cut in his chest.
"What're- What're you-?"
"/Sh/!"
She pulls out a roll of bandages. Bewildered, he looks to the worried Edson for answers.
"She went to the community centre and took a couple of first-aid classes last week." Edson grins a sheepish grin. "She wanted to be able to help."
"Yea, well, this is still completely out of my league," Joss mutters sullenly. "No such thing as first aid after Takeo. Ed-"
"Jay-"
"/Ed/. Ring up Fiorel, please."
Edson walks away. Chale watches Joss kneel at his side, head bowed, on the verge of tears.
He hates it.
"Joss."
"Don't talk, Chay, it must hurt like a bitch."
She's not wrong; a searing pain explodes throughout his body with every movement. He doesn't care- this is more important.
"Joss..."
"Chay, don't-!" She frowns at him, brow creased with worry. Sighing, she concedes sooner than usual. "What is it?"
"Sm- Smile for me, Jay."
She's about to cry, and all she does is stare. He reaches up a hand to stroke her cheek, giving her a weak grin.
"C'mon, babe. Smile."
She smiles. Her eyes are sad, be she can tell that she's trying her hardest for them not to be. Her expression is, although tentative, warm and easy; he loves that he can be the cause of that.
I wish you weren't so tired.
The door opens. His first thought is that it's Fiorel, and he tenses up. He doesn't want Fiorel to intrude on this moment, to see him and Joss like this and get angry. Elysia's voice rings out with her usual greetings (/"Hey, Jay. Hey, asshole."/), and he relaxes.
But the damage is done.
Joss takes his hand in hers and sets it gently at his side. She hurries away to Elysia; he catches a glimpse of her hurt and feels like the world's biggest asshole. He decides that, all things considered, today is a shitty day.
Okay, it is, but not in all senses of the word. The characters don't belong to me at ALL- except for Joss. I've changed their names and appearances and taken a lot of liberties with them, but they'll never be my characters. This is just a story I wrote on a rainy day, bored and nostalgic. This is just a story of what could have been but couldn't, really, because we were all so young.
If you recognize any character- or, hell, the whole premise- than TALK TO ME, MAN! And if you recognize a character that is yours, lemme say sorry. Sorrysorrysorry. It's your character, but not. Your character as a doll to be used for my selfish whims as an attempt to curb my hungry notebook. I did try to keep some semblance of the original, though. Oh yea, I miss you.
Let's clear it up one last time before starting, shall we? Characters sans Joss = not mine, just being used by me.
Thanks,
noisee
-------
Pocket Change
-------
[01: /he's got a smile that charms me plenty/]
Everything changes. Skies get dark, grass grows yellow, people die. The one thing that never, ever, ever changes is the inn's cardinal rule: You don't fuck with Takeo.
"Go fuck yourself, man."
"Unlike yourself, I need not resort to self-service for such- primal urges."
He lights a cigarette; in all her life, Joss has never seen a day where he went without one. She thinks he was probably born with one dangling out of his mouth. As he brings it to his lips, he cocks a brow at the man before him. Arrogance paints his face. Of all the people who have looked arrogantly at Takeo Lyon, Chale Mancini is one of the only survivors.
"Yea?" Chale says around his cigarette. "Got a lady of the night waitin' for ya? Or do you just... take one?"
Chocolate eyes narrow. It occurs to Joss that the three of them all have brown eyes.
"I've never had the need to force myself upon anyone."
Chale snorts. "With a wrinkled old mug like yours? Bullshit."
Joss lets out a tiny sigh during the ensuing silence. Takeo stands on the left, high and foreboding. Contrary to Chale's remark, Takeo looks quite youthful. He has the regal air and handsome features of an aristocrat: high cheekbones, jet-black, chin-length hair, and striking, slanted, narrow eyes. His heavy-metal outfit- chains on his leather pants, matching wifebeater, combat boots- does nothing to snuff his royal aura, even as it reveals his pale warrior's physique, complete with dragon tattoos and battle scars.
Chale, on the other hand, is almost the inverse of the dark prince: his skin has a sun-kissed glow to it; his hair is fair and set in wild spikes. He's got the good looks of a rock star, and yet he is the one in a dress shirt and jeans- albeit worn-out and rumpled. His trainers are stained and nearing the point of falling apart. There's some blood on his earring- but not his own.
Joss has got one of his dress shirts on, her fingers barely peeking out of the wrinkled sleeves. She's also wearing an old, baggy pair of cargoes with suspenders hanging off her hips, forgotten. Her feet are clad in black-and-white AllStars, a birthday gift from Takeo. She dyed her hair that day; blonde streaks run with short ebon locks tied into high pigtails.
Chase tells her that she sometimes makes him feel like a pedophile, and they laugh. She's sixteen; he's eighteen. The only real old guy there is Takeo, but he's virtually immortal, so he doesn't count.
"Are they at it again?"
Into the scene enters the inn's proprietor, Edson Ryker. Where Joss has chopped her hair short, Edson's caramel locks are shaggy and low over his eyes. He's wearing jeans and a red-and-yellow striped scarf over his black longsleeved. She smiles at his ocean-blue eyes. This man is like her brother, despite all of their differences.
"Is the sky blue?" she replies dryly.
Edson grins nervously; he usually doesn't worry about the fighters, he worries about his inn. When it's Chale versus Takeo, he worries about Chale. Reassuringly, Joss leans back from her perch on the bar's counter and pats his head. She thinks he's taken on more than he can handle; no nineteen-year-old should be getting gray hairs over keeping his home.
"He'll be fine, Eddie," she says.
"Right," Edson nods, "he always is."
"Yup. He always is."
Chale catches Joss and Edson's conversation, vaguely aware of their unvoiced statement.
He'll be fine, he always is- thanks to Fiorel.
Fiorel. Takeo's beautiful, angelic daughter. Spawn of scum blessed with magic fingers. God knows why she's taken such a shine to him, but he's not complaining. She's got long, brown-and-honey curls, sultry green eyes, and curves in all the right places.
Absently, he notes the irony: Fiorel, the nurturing healer, is the voluptuous, seductive one, whereas Joss, the street-raised brat, is the one who blushes at him when he undresses.
He thinks Fiorel's using him to make her daddy mad. He thinks he doesn't mind.
He thinks Joss is going to get herself killed. He thinks she's too precious for death.
He thinks he has a thing for girls with streaks.
"You must have a death wish, Mancini," says Takeo Lyon.
/No kidding/, he muses, almost rolling his eyes. Every time he and Chale argue, they fight. Every time they fight, he gets his ass handed to him on a silver platter, with a festive sprig of mint.
"What's a person who doesn't want?" He mumbles, almost slurs.
Takeo's frown deepens.
"A corpse."
They lunge at each other and, after a flurry of thrown fists and fancy footwork, Chale Mancini lies in the settling dust. Without a word, Takeo leaves the inn.
Joss rushes to Chale's aid, Edson at her heels. She pops a cherry sucker into her mouth as she rummages in a white box; she turns to candy like he does cigarettes. He chuckles, but the force of Takeo's final attack seems to have snapped a rib. Just breathing is a tortuously painful act. Still, he hisses in pain when Joss rubs alcohol on the deep-ish cut in his chest.
"What're- What're you-?"
"/Sh/!"
She pulls out a roll of bandages. Bewildered, he looks to the worried Edson for answers.
"She went to the community centre and took a couple of first-aid classes last week." Edson grins a sheepish grin. "She wanted to be able to help."
"Yea, well, this is still completely out of my league," Joss mutters sullenly. "No such thing as first aid after Takeo. Ed-"
"Jay-"
"/Ed/. Ring up Fiorel, please."
Edson walks away. Chale watches Joss kneel at his side, head bowed, on the verge of tears.
He hates it.
"Joss."
"Don't talk, Chay, it must hurt like a bitch."
She's not wrong; a searing pain explodes throughout his body with every movement. He doesn't care- this is more important.
"Joss..."
"Chay, don't-!" She frowns at him, brow creased with worry. Sighing, she concedes sooner than usual. "What is it?"
"Sm- Smile for me, Jay."
She's about to cry, and all she does is stare. He reaches up a hand to stroke her cheek, giving her a weak grin.
"C'mon, babe. Smile."
She smiles. Her eyes are sad, be she can tell that she's trying her hardest for them not to be. Her expression is, although tentative, warm and easy; he loves that he can be the cause of that.
I wish you weren't so tired.
The door opens. His first thought is that it's Fiorel, and he tenses up. He doesn't want Fiorel to intrude on this moment, to see him and Joss like this and get angry. Elysia's voice rings out with her usual greetings (/"Hey, Jay. Hey, asshole."/), and he relaxes.
But the damage is done.
Joss takes his hand in hers and sets it gently at his side. She hurries away to Elysia; he catches a glimpse of her hurt and feels like the world's biggest asshole. He decides that, all things considered, today is a shitty day.
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