Cosmic Roads - Back Road I - Sideways Saturday

Warning: references to past violence, psychological abuse, and trauma-induced underage chain-smoking

"I said I want my truck running by 3PM!" the disheveled customer in a rumpled jacket and faded bluejeans snarled, hurling Timothy's newly repaired radio past his head. "It's nearly four!"

"Maybe ya shoulda thought 'bout that before ya ran that truck with a bad water pump," Timothy countered, swinging his glower between the now shattered radio and the customer. "I warned ya when ya called yesterday--park it n' we'll pick it up in the mornin'."

"Don't you dare talk to me like that when you--!" the customer roared, grabbing Timothy by his mechanic's shirt, but he was promptly shoved back. The teen advanced, a breaker bar appearing in his hand.

"Get out," came the answering growl, "don't make me tell ya again."

"What about my truck?!"

"Call th' shop first thing Monday--n' don't be s'prised if yer billed fer dat radio." The man's jaw worked silently for a tense instant, then he turned and stomped through the open bay door. Gritting his teeth, Timothy clenched the breaker bar tightly in his fist. He heaved a weary sigh as the ongoing headache ducked into his car and peeled out of the gravel parking lot, then locked down the shop. Heaving a sigh, he tossed the tool, trudged into the cramped and messy office and picked up the phone.

"Kara's Pen and Ink," came the familiar chirp of his guardian's long-loved friend.

"Hey Miss Kara," he muttered, lighting a cigarette with his battered Zippo."

"Why aren't you on the road?" she grumbled in exasperation, "You should be on 285 by now!"

"Uncle Mike had calls all day, n' I got slammed at th' shop," he sighed. "Asshole with th' Pioneer just put 'is hands on me."

"Why do you put up with him?!"

"Gotta soft spot fer Yamamotos," he mumbled, "carbed ones 'specially."

"Take the back roads then," she sighed, "just in case. I'll wait for you."

"Yes ma'am," he muttered, his brow furrowing, "thanks." Grimacing as she hung up, he did likewise and shrugged on his light jacket. Pausing only to pocket an extra pack of smokes, he locked the side door behind him, and eased into his Mustang. Turning the key, he stole a glance at the rear view mirror and winced at the sleepless bruising beneath eyes aged beyond his meager sixteen years.

"Mustang activated," came the warm, almost gentle announcement from the speaker mounted to his gutted dash. Heaving an exhausted sigh, he cranked the engine and peeled out of the parking lot.

Timothy leaned heavily against the counter, sagging in relief as he wrote Rika's name in Japanese calligraphy. The flow of iridescent Mustang blue, purple, and burgundy took his breath away as it slowly dried, revealing deeper textures. Even the glass dip pen felt soft as its tip floated upon its cushion of ink. Kara beamed as he rose, dipped the pen in distilled water, and cleaned the nib with a soft cloth.

"It's called shimmering ink," she murmured, her eyes lighting up beneath gray streaked blond bangs, "it's so new, I don't think anyone this side of Albuquerque's even heard of it."

"Rika's gonna love it," he breathed, corking the bottle. "Were ya able t' find a dip pen that fit the specs I gave ya? Her hands're 'bout as small as th' rest of 'er." Kara's grin broadened as she produced a small tin.

"You gave the glass shop such a pleasant challenge, they decided to make the pen for free," she whispered conspiratorially. He gave a sheepish nod, but his breath caught as she opened the tin, revealing the small, glittering shape within. The pen halves, hand sculpted in a mix of clear glass and a shimmer of pinks and green brought back memories of the delicate pink carpets covering the cherry trees behind his Grandpa's farmhouse. "Do you know what meaning sakura has in Japanese culture?"

"No," he admitted, "but I know she misses 'em'."

"They bloom for a little over a week every year, and then they're gone... They're a reminder to cherish even life's fleeting moments. But the next spring, they bloom again, bringing the promise of something new."

"The Japanese school year starts 'round dis time," he agreed, his eyes softening.

"And you're the new beginning she's been waiting for." Kara tenderly closed the tin and took his hand with a knowing smile. "Don't lose sight of that, Timothy."

"I wonder 'bout dat," he admitted with a worried grimace, "it's gettin' bad fer 'er..." He stiffened as she gripped the back of his neck and drew him down for a half embrace across the counter.

"You have no idea how much even the little things you do mean to her." He grit his teeth against a welling of bittersweetness rising in his chest as he gripped her arm. "She sleeps in a warm bed because you chose to sit in that chair every night. Even your absurd underground music speaks to her. By the way," she groaned theatrically, "what possessed you to buy a single about artificial intelligence making bad music?!" Timothy laughed despite himself as she released him from her embrace.

"Dunno," he grunted, "just sounded funny." She shook her head in amused exasperation as he paid the bill. "Suno's livin' rent-free n' muh' brain," he quipped, drawing a laugh from the middle aged shop owner.

"What's a Suno?!" she chortled.

"Who knows--I'm still usin' Amigas."

"In '97?!" she sputtered as he unlocked the Mustang and turned the key.

"Mustang activated," it announced, drawing a gasp from Kara.

"Car speaks fer itself," came the playful retort as her jaw dropped. He cranked the engine, then accepted the shopping bag with a grateful nod. Shaking his head in amusement, he pulled his blocky cellular phone from his book bag and slid it into its fabricated mount by the shattered hollow where gauges once were. "Gotta message fer Ms. Sommers?" he grunted, "'bout t' call 'er since I'm runnin' late."

"Just tell her I miss her--and to bring Rika next time."

"Will do." He plugged a pair of custom cables into the phone, but smiled despite himself as she gripped his arm once more. "Thanks again, Miss Kara; this'll mean th' world t' muh' lady."

"Be safe--and come by more often!" Timothy nodded gratefully as he popped the Mustang in gear, and with a grunted "later," pulled out of the parking lot. Pausing only to dial his guardian's number, he pulled onto the street, for once feeling a weight lift from his shoulders.

"Hey Timothy," came Ms. Sommers' familiar lilt, "are you on your way back?"

"Yeah," he muttered, popping a cigarette in his mouth, "but looks like I might not be able to make it fer dinner." He grimaced at the darkening sky as he hit his turn signal.

"Rika misses you already," she commiserated, "I hope you make it home safe--I've been uneasy all afternoon." He grimaced as he turned onto 82, but his brow furrowed at the near absence of traffic. "Timothy...?"

"Somethin' don't feel right," he grunted, lighting his cigarette, "what the fu--?!" He slammed on clutch and brake as a cop darted across the road with a spike strip, but it was too late... He fought to keep the Mustang from fishtailing as it came to a halt, the piercing, almost organic pop-hiss of punctured tires grating his ears. The cigarette fell from his lips as a souped up Honda screamed past, its tires blowing, even as it spun directly into an unmarked police cruiser. Popping out of gear, he stomped out the cigarette between his feet. "Sure dis ain't uh' Hannibal Lecter Tuesday...?" he quavered.

The wiry, balding mechanic rolled the tire against the lift and grinned as he clapped Timothy's shoulder.

"I'd have been here all night if you hadn't shown up," he grunted, his eyes widening slightly as the teen pulled a long wooden cigar box from beneath the ruined dash.

"I'd uh' been up shit creek if ya didn't lemme work off these tires," came Timothy's answering grunt. "Yer every bit th' man Uncle Mike said ya were." The mechanic chuckled, but choked as the latches were popped and the lid, with its two cooling fans, swung down, revealing the hand-etched PCB's within.

"What's that?!"

"ECU," Timothy muttered, a cigarette appearing in his mouth, "gonna do some checks b'fore I roll out."

"Wanna burger before ya go?"

"Sounds good--thanks, Sam." The mechanic gave an unseen nod, but nearly jumped out of his skin as Timothy turned the key one click and--"Mustang activated," as the engine cranked to life.

"What the--?!" Sam sputtered, but caught himself as Timothy glanced over his shoulder in askance, then added, "back in a few." Timothy grunted wordlessly as he switched on his multimeter and only halfway heard the mechanic's footsteps, or his car driving off as the Mustang announced its vitals: "Temperature: 124.8 degrees. Voltage: 13.8 volts..." Cranking the dial on the meter, then clipped the ground lead to the frame and checked voltages. Distantly, he heard another car pull up, but ignored it as the ash fell from his cigarette--"12 volt rail--11.8... 5 volt--4.9... 3.3 volt... 3.15--low..." He heaved a sigh as he heard a car door close, followed by approaching footsteps. "Wilson Tire n' Rim's closed, man--where's dat voltage drop comin' from...?" He moved the probe to the power supply board, "ooh... alternator ripple--68000's don't like dat..." He heaved a sigh, then rose to face the visitor--and ignoring the shiver as he beheld the cop, simply nodded and dropped his cigarette in a soda can. "Yer th' cop dat escorted us here--friend uh' Sam's?" The cop, squat and stocky, shifted uncomfortably and gave a mute nod. "He rolled out fer burgers--but I guess it's aight if ya wait fer 'im." Heaving a sigh, he hefted the tire onto the wheel, then slid it onto the lug bolts. "Ya hafta excuse me--cops n' Corinth, they... they got it in fer me."

"How...?" the cop muttered, conflict flickering in his gaze. Timothy winced, but heaved a sigh as he popped another cigarette in his mouth.

"Muh' mother has evidence that'll take down th' people runnin' 'em," came the desolate whisper as he lit his cigarette with trembling hands, "I'm th' reason she's still alive... n' now I gotta protect muh' lady..."

"And what about... your lady...?" the cop grimaced as Timothy's knees nearly buckled.

"She-she's an exchange student... same people run Corinth City Schools, n' they want 'er t' crack... Dat's why I'm here... 'er birthday's t'morrah..." He swallowed hard and produced the bag. "Dunno why I'm tellin' ya dis--last time uh' cop beat muh' ass fer it..." He grit his teeth as returned the bag, but his rattle of anguish was cut off by the harsh, feminine intrusion of dispatch.

"Unit thirty-seven--warrant confirmed--Corinth PD flags Timothy Maxwell as extremely dangerous. Be advised: suspect is under guardianship of a protected witness. Proceed with extreme caution."

"Yer-yer just gonna do their dirty work?!" Timothy moaned, leaning heavily against the car. "Why don't ya just fuckin' shoot me--n' shoot Rika n' muh' mother while yer at it...?!"

"Confirm dispatch," the cop muttered desolately into the mic on his shoulder, "I got Maxwell, but somethin' don't add up--find out about a Rika--what's her last name, Maxwell?"

"M-Migowa..."

"Rika Migowa--see if you can reach the Embassy... this don't feel right."

"Roger, thirty-seven--but arrest immediately." Timothy let out a renewed groan as he turned and planted his hands on the hood of the car.

"Any weapons?" the cop grumbled as he searched him.

"Right front pocket." The knife was removed and pocketed by the cop, who riffled through his wallet for identification, then pulled the shopping bag from the passenger seat. The tin and the ink bottle were examined under a flashlight, then placed on the hood. "Just put 'em back n' th' car--please." His words, in a trembling near whisper, made the cop's hand brush against the long-necked round bottle as he staggered, sending it tottering on the edge of the hood. "No...!" Timothy cried, lunging desperately, but the cop shoved him as he leaped away, causing the bottle to tumble down the fender, its neck snapping as Timothy tried to grab it. Ink flowed incandescently beneath the shop lights as it splashed car, teen, and cop, then the bottle shattered in a quiet but deafening crack as the taser appeared in the cop's trembling hand. The barbs fired, missing Timothy, who slipped in ink, and sailed beneath the open door--"Voltage: 13.8 volts. Ra--" the voice of the Mustang halted mid-syllable as dome light flickered, and engine died, as if its heart beat its last, and Timothy launched himself, sending the cop crashing against the tool cart. "BASTARD!!!" came the strangled yell as his fist collided with the officer's jaw, "dat car kept 'em alive!!!" The cop planted his feet against him and shoved, then fired his taser, sending the teen jerking like a fish on a line and landing hard against the car. The tin gleamed as it tumbled, then opened, revealing the pen--even as the wobbling tire fell from its lug bolts and crashed upon it with a thud and a tinkling crack. He let out a choked sob amid the desolation, eyes closing in resignation.

"Rika..." he choked, "I... I'm sorry..."

"Turn your head to the right," came the quiet, cool command. Timothy complied, his booking number heavy in his hands as the camera flash dazzled him. His ink-damp shirt and jeans chilled him despite the central heating, but he ignored the cold as another cop joined the officer behind the camera.

"He finished?" came the weary grunt, "we got problems out front."

"What kind? Corinth PD wants him back yesterday."

"The Embassy kind." The graying veteran heaved an exasperated sigh and cuffed him.

"Come on," he grumbled, dragging him through a winding series of bland cream halls and steel doors. A tiny flicker of hope rose deep within Timothy's chest as they cleared another turn and the final door opened, revealing the welcome sight of Ms. Sommers, Uncle Mike, and Rika. The frail, wheelchair bound guardian's half blind gaze softened ever so slightly as it fell upon him, but she gripped Rika's hand as the small, petite girl tried to lunge forward with a choked cry. Timothy swallowed hard as Uncle Mike, gray, weathered, and exhausted, shoved a stack of paperwork and video tapes into a waiting detective's hands.

"D're," he spat, "now do somethin' useful!"

"You damaged my son's car twice, you broke Rika's birthday present--and now you bring him out cuffed?!" his mother demanded, her wheelchair surging forward in testament to her fury. "Whose pension will be paying for the damages?!"

"The warrant classifies you as 'a protected witness,' Ms. Sommers," the detective grumbled, shifting uncomfortably, "and you claim this criminal as--?!"

"That criminal is why I'm still alive!" she flared, but all heads turned as the door on the far side of the room wrenched open, admitting an aging, but quite sturdy Japanese man, who strode forward, his gray trench coat flaring behind him. He swung a steely gaze over the assembled cops, his steel gray mustache twitching dangerously as he came to a halt.

"Yusuke Fuwakawa," came the quiet rasp as he flashed his ID, "Japanese Embassy--and it ill behooves me to remind you of your job." He shoved a folder into the hands of the veteran beside Timothy. "Mr. Maxwell is crucial to the safety and well-being of both Sommers-san and Ms. Migowa, yet you, who are aware of the very corruption in Corinth which threatens my citizen failed to vet his warrant--despite your documented history of doing so with the Eddy County Sheriff's Department." Fuwakawa waited, his mustache bristling as the cop, who Timothy realized to be the police chief, thumbed through the folder. "Take note of the final pages and release him." His mustache twitched imperceptibly as he added, "now." Growing pale, the chief passed the folder and complied, but staggered backward as Rika collided with Timothy.

"Timoshii...! Timoshiiiii...!" she wailed, burying her face against his chest.

"Rika...." he choked, holding her tightly, "watashi wa koko ni imasu... kanarazu modotte kimasu..." She cried harder and she clutched his inky shirt, but slowly quieted upon feeling his lips press gently upon her head. The agent's gaze softened almost imperceptibly as he gripped Timothy's shoulder with a quiet nod.

"Come, Mr. Maxwell," came his quiet, almost gentle urging, "you're tired, and Ms. Migowa and Sommers-san need you."

"Y-yes sir..."

Consciousness came slowly to the bone-weary Timothy, who sank deeply into his low, overstuffed chair. His eyes were leaden weights as he clung tightly to the final wisps of sleep, but a soft, contented sigh accompanied the silken warmth beneath his left hand. Rika... she's here... The dawning revelation settled within like a quiet rain upon his parched soul as he opened his eyes. His booted feet rested upon the ottoman, but his breath caught as Rika's wide-eyed gaze regarded him from the armrest. The collar of her pink pajamas peeked from a throw, which looked more like a full blanket wrapped about her small form.

"M-mornin'..." he choked, swallowing hard against a welling of tears. He leaned forward, his feet coming down as she disappeared in his embrace. "I'm sorry... your presents..."

"You are my birthday, Timoshii..." she cried against him. He groaned as he held her tighter, finally allowing his own tears to flow.

"Damn..." came his halting whisper, "I... I shoulda known..." He grit his teeth as she too wept, but finally brushed her tears away. "I... I'm here... happy birthday..." She trembled against him, but her tears finally ebbed as he tenderly kissed her cheek. "I'm here fer yer big One-Five, n' I'll be here for yer sweet sixteen... n' every year...!"

"H-hai..." she murmured, holding him tighter, "and I will be..."