HL50 - Time
Okay, so I'm over eager and have too much spare time on my hands, but here is my first effort for the HL50.
This is set just after Richie’s spectacular second death, during 'Testimony' when he was sitting in that ‘café, a place in the middle of nowhere’.
Time
Richie sat at the table and sipped his espresso, staring at the beautiful French countryside, but not really seeing it. He had ordered a tarte au chocolat, but he hadn’t touched it, except to push it around his plate a bit with his fork. He was reliving the race again, watching every turn, every second, trying to see if it could have ended any other way. He was satisfied that the crash was the fault of Basil, but wasn’t it also his too? Mac had said it, had asked him if he’d push as hard if he wasn’t Immortal. At the time he’d thought he would, but now he wasn’t as sure.
He mentally kicked himself. For the first time in his life he had been getting paid to do something he loved, something he was good at. He probably would have eventually made a name for himself. A couple of big wins and he would have had enough money that he wouldn’t need to worry for another lifetime. Now it was all gone, and he would be back to living hand to mouth, on the road. And now he couldn’t run to Mac in Paris if something went wrong.
Perhaps he could look up Amanda, get her help to make the move into the big league, he thought idly. Just one big job, a couple of mill, and he’d be set. He could stash it in Switzerland or the Caymans and he’d be able to live comfortably off the interest for fifty or so years. He smiled to himself and shook his head. No, he wasn’t that desperate yet. Where there was Amanda, trouble usually followed, and he could create enough of that on his own.
Maybe when he got back to the States he could hit Vegas. He’d always been a fairly decent poker player, and Mac had helped him improve enormously. He just needed to get a stake together. Then he realised that he would get ID’d at every casino he tried to enter, and he wasn’t sure how well his new alias would stand up to close scrutiny. He cursed the fates for making him eternally nineteen.
Perhaps Mac would lend him some money so he could go to college. He felt certain that Mac would stump up the cash if it was for his education. He was always going on about the importance of learning. Maybe he’d study business, or something with computers.
Richie was pulled from his reverie as he noticed a group of men at another table staring at him. He couldn’t understand much of what was said, but he recognised some of them from the Paris track. “Damn.” He muttered, as he dropped some money on the table to cover the bill and headed for his bike. Time to get the hell out of dodge. Mac would know what to do. Why did he always keep screwing up?
But at the end of the day, it was okay to screw up. He could start racing again in a few decades, try again. He could do anything he wanted; after all he had plenty of time.
This is set just after Richie’s spectacular second death, during 'Testimony' when he was sitting in that ‘café, a place in the middle of nowhere’.
Time
Richie sat at the table and sipped his espresso, staring at the beautiful French countryside, but not really seeing it. He had ordered a tarte au chocolat, but he hadn’t touched it, except to push it around his plate a bit with his fork. He was reliving the race again, watching every turn, every second, trying to see if it could have ended any other way. He was satisfied that the crash was the fault of Basil, but wasn’t it also his too? Mac had said it, had asked him if he’d push as hard if he wasn’t Immortal. At the time he’d thought he would, but now he wasn’t as sure.
He mentally kicked himself. For the first time in his life he had been getting paid to do something he loved, something he was good at. He probably would have eventually made a name for himself. A couple of big wins and he would have had enough money that he wouldn’t need to worry for another lifetime. Now it was all gone, and he would be back to living hand to mouth, on the road. And now he couldn’t run to Mac in Paris if something went wrong.
Perhaps he could look up Amanda, get her help to make the move into the big league, he thought idly. Just one big job, a couple of mill, and he’d be set. He could stash it in Switzerland or the Caymans and he’d be able to live comfortably off the interest for fifty or so years. He smiled to himself and shook his head. No, he wasn’t that desperate yet. Where there was Amanda, trouble usually followed, and he could create enough of that on his own.
Maybe when he got back to the States he could hit Vegas. He’d always been a fairly decent poker player, and Mac had helped him improve enormously. He just needed to get a stake together. Then he realised that he would get ID’d at every casino he tried to enter, and he wasn’t sure how well his new alias would stand up to close scrutiny. He cursed the fates for making him eternally nineteen.
Perhaps Mac would lend him some money so he could go to college. He felt certain that Mac would stump up the cash if it was for his education. He was always going on about the importance of learning. Maybe he’d study business, or something with computers.
Richie was pulled from his reverie as he noticed a group of men at another table staring at him. He couldn’t understand much of what was said, but he recognised some of them from the Paris track. “Damn.” He muttered, as he dropped some money on the table to cover the bill and headed for his bike. Time to get the hell out of dodge. Mac would know what to do. Why did he always keep screwing up?
But at the end of the day, it was okay to screw up. He could start racing again in a few decades, try again. He could do anything he wanted; after all he had plenty of time.