Away From Here- Chapter 3.
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Chapter 3.
Feeling Like A Perv Yet?
Fifteen minutes later and Whiz finds himself leaning against the door to female changing rooms, the metal door, with the word ‘Female’ encrusted in chipped and faded pink paint printed above his head is cold against his back. He sighs and hammers on the door behind him.
“Aren’t you done yet, princess?” he shouts, hoping to be heard over the loud hum he can hear from the showers. He gets no reply from her; instead his stomach grumbles noisily at him. He sighs. “How long does it take to shower anyway? All you have to do is start up the sonics and press go!” he shouts in time for a woman dressed in white cotton clothing with the words ‘technician’ to pass him, carrying a pile of wires under one arm. She gives him a sceptical look and he smiles awkwardly, waving her by. He turns back to the door as soon as she’s out of earshot and hammers on the door once more time. “Come on, Mara, I’m hungry! You promised food and people are looking at me funny!”
He hears the humming shunt to a stop and there’s moment of silence before the heavy metal is yanked forcefully from behind him, he topples backwards, barely regaining his balance in time to save himself and prevent himself from hitting the cracked tile flooring. He hears Mara laughing at him from somewhere across the room but Whiz is focused on the girl in front of him, who currently glaring at him, one eyebrow raised, her bag slung over her shoulder, PDA in her hand.
“Do you mind?” she snaps, looking back to her PDA as it pings. It looks like a slightly later model of the standard PDA that most people own, maybe the 2.0 released last summer. Whiz eyes it from where he’s stood, seeing if she’s had any modifications attached. The 2.0’s don’t react well to the old modification patches. She looks up again to glare at him. “I said, do you mind?” Burning crimson, he slides out of the way and she shoulders him as she passes. Whiz has to brace himself against her upper body strength. He nods to himself; she’s obviously a climber.
Across the room, Mara is still laughing at him. He glares at her, even though she can’t see him, her body obscured by a rack of coat hooks set into a metal sheet.
“Oh god, Whiz. You should have seen your face!” She giggles. There’s a rustle of plastic fabric and Mara reappears with a white towel around her torso. She’s still chuckling. Whiz glares at her.
“That wasn’t funny. I bet you did that on purpose,” he grumps. She rolls her eyes, still smiling.
“Yes, dear. Because my whole life revolves around making your world as embarrassing as possible,” she tells him, sarcasm dripping from her tone but humour still sparkling behind her eyes. The towel is... Lacking to say the least, covering from her breasts down to the middle of her thighs and her long, muscled legs go on forever below the towel. Whiz gives her a cursory glance, trying not to stare. Not that he hasn’t seen it all before. He coughs and averts his eyes when she raises an eyebrow at him.
“Are you hanging around here while I get dressed or are you going back out there?” She motions to the door.
He glances to the door. “And risk being labelled a pervert for the rest of my life? I’ll stay here, thank you very much,” he replies.
“Whiz? You’re in the girls changing room. You’re pretty much a perv either way.” She laughs and his head snaps up to survey the room.
“You mean there’s someone else in here?!” he yelps.
“Just us, buddy. I promise,” she tells him. Laughing she wanders over to the other side of the changing rooms, to an area stacked with lockers to place valuables in. She heads over to one marked with the number ‘69’ but has the words ‘Grandmaster’ scrawled across it in bright red marker. She smiles at the antics of the other people in the runners category who use the lockers. She slides her thumb across her the grubby metal and it bleeps.
“Print recognised: Mara Knight,” the computerised voice tells her before it swings open to reveal a pile of clean clothes and a handbag stuffed inside. She grabs the lockers contents and throws the handbag at Whiz, who catches it with perfect accuracy.
“You know, you should really try one of the catching sports, you’d be brilliant with those opticals of yours,” she remarks, pulling her plastic towel up around her, more for her modesty than anything else, the sonic showers being completely waterless, after all.
Whiz shrugs from somewhere behind her as he fiddles with her handbag. “I’d really rather not,” he tells her. “I bought these things for circuitry, not for sports,” he reminds her, tapping the edge of his eye. “You use it, I fix it. That how it works.”
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” she says, “those simulations are getting better and better.”
“I know, Mar. I’ve been watching them develop,” he reminds her.
“Yeah, but-” She cuts herself short and spins around to face him, her towel slipping precariously before she yanks it back up again. “-you aren’t in there. You don’t know what it’s like to experience running with the wind whipping through your hair and the grass beneath your shoes...”
“...As you run from hordes of angry simulation guards,” he finishes for her. “Yeah, not my sort of thing. Now are we going to be going soon or not?” he asks her, impatience creeping into his tone.
She laughs and pats him on the shoulder. “Sure, give me a minute to get dressed,” she says as she disappears behind the metal sheet.
“I’ve been waiting for you to get dressed for the past twenty minutes,” he grumbles.
“Well then, you can wait a few minutes longer,” she tells him, breezily from behind the sheet Whiz hears the sound of the plastic towel falling away and the rustling of clothes and he fiddles with the bag. In his head he knows what it must contain; her PDA, a spare battery pack (why she insists on carrying it around is beyond Whiz, he’s already modified it so much for her that it barely needs a battery anymore) a couple of monetary strips and chips and her spare membership card for the Agency, in case anything happens to her thumbprint.
There’s the sound of struggling and the noise of a zipper as Mara pulls on her trousers before he hears a loud grumble.
“What’s up, Mara?” he calls over the divide.
“My top’s creased up,” she replies and he can hear her huffing as she tries to flatten it.
“You know they do have clothing synthesisers here,” he reminds her, jerking his head towards the large metal machine set into the wall that’s purring quietly in the corner, even though she can’t see him do it. “If it’s annoying you so much just get it to replicate some new clothes.”
“Just us, buddy. I promise,” she tells him. Laughing she wanders over to the other side of the changing rooms, to an area stacked with lockers to place valuables in. She heads over to one marked with the number ‘69’ but has the words ‘Grandmaster’ scrawled across it in bright red marker. She smiles at the antics of the other people in the runners category who use the lockers. She slides her thumb across her the grubby metal and it bleeps.
“Print recognised: Mara Knight,” the computerised voice tells her before it swings open to reveal a pile of clean clothes and a handbag stuffed inside. She grabs the lockers contents and throws the handbag at Whiz, who catches it with perfect accuracy.
“You know, you should really try one of the catching sports, you’d be brilliant with those opticals of yours,” she remarks, pulling her plastic towel up around her, more for her modesty than anything else, the sonic showers being completely waterless, after all.
Whiz shrugs from somewhere behind her as he fiddles with her handbag. “I’d really rather not,” he tells her. “I bought these things for circuitry, not for sports,” he reminds her, tapping the edge of his eye. “You use it, I fix it. That how it works.”
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” she says, “those simulations are getting better and better.”
“I know, Mar. I’ve been watching them develop,” he reminds her.
“Yeah, but-” She cuts herself short and spins around to face him, her towel slipping precariously before she yanks it back up again. “-you aren’t in there. You don’t know what it’s like to experience running with the wind whipping through your hair and the grass beneath your shoes...”
“...As you run from hordes of angry simulation guards,” he finishes for her. “Yeah, not my sort of thing. Now are we going to be going soon or not?” he asks her, impatience creeping into his tone.
She laughs and pats him on the shoulder. “Sure, give me a minute to get dressed,” she says as she disappears behind the metal sheet.
“I’ve been waiting for you to get dressed for the past twenty minutes,” he grumbles.
“Well then, you can wait a few minutes longer,” she tells him, breezily from behind the sheet Whiz hears the sound of the plastic towel falling away and the rustling of clothes and he fiddles with the bag. In his head he knows what it must contain; her PDA, a spare battery pack (why she insists on carrying it around is beyond Whiz, he’s already modified it so much for her that it barely needs a battery anymore) a couple of monetary strips and chips and her spare membership card for the Agency, in case anything happens to her thumbprint.
There’s the sound of struggling and the noise of a zipper as Mara pulls on her trousers before he hears a loud grumble.
“What’s up, Mara?” he calls over the divide.
“My top’s creased up,” she replies and he can hear her huffing as she tries to flatten it.
“You know they do have clothing synthesisers here,” he reminds her, jerking his head towards the large metal machine set into the wall that’s purring quietly in the corner, even though she can’t see him do it. “If it’s annoying you so much just get it to replicate some new clothes.”
Suddenly Mara’s head appears from round the divide, her hair up in a ponytail and as far as Whiz can tell she’s naked from her shoulders to her waist, not that he can see or is looking... Honest to god he’s not.
She scowls at him. “Do you have any idea what that stuff is made of?” He opens his mouth to reply but she gets there first. “It’s plastic, Whiz, pure plastic melted into clothing and call me picky but I’d really rather not wear plastic denim.” Whiz glances down at his own replicated trousers, freshly made this morning, he picks at the fibreless fabric.
“I guess so...”
She nods. “I’d rather stick to the real deal thank you very much, even if it is beginning to cost a small fortune.” She ducks back and pulls on her top, before stepping out into the neon lighting. She’s dressed in a pair of jeans, slung low on her hips and a baggy beige top with some unknown band written in black hieroglyphs across the chest. The entire outfit probably from some back alley second hand shop, Whiz notes. She tucks the laces of her battered old fabric shoes into the sides and slings her thin grey plastic jacket over her shoulder. It’s only plastic item she’s got with her, but only because it keeps out the rain, she tells him.
“It also puts you about twenty years back in fashion,” he notes as he appraises her. Mara raises an eyebrow.
“Do I honestly look like I care about fashion?” she asks him, chewing the inside of her cheek absently. He looks her over one more time and shrugs, tossing her bag at her. She catches it, fumbling a little as she slings it onto her other shoulder.
“I just thought you might like my opinion...” he mutters at her.
“Says the man who’s wearing last summer’s fashion!” she replies, motioning at his baggy green cargo pants and the scruffy white t-shirt tucked loosely into them, the trousers so long they cover up what Mara knows are the white plastic shoes that most people wear lately. He thrusts his hands into his pockets.
“So you do watch the fashions!” he says, triumphantly. She colours just a little and glares at him, sliding her bag further up her shoulder.
“I hate you,” she grumbles at him. “I’m not talking to you anymore,” she tells him, defiantly. Whiz rolls his eyes.
“Yes you are, ‘cause I’m paying for food,” he tells her, bounding over to her and linking his arm through hers. “Now come on,” he commands, tugging on their conjoined arms. She sighs in defeat after a moment and allows herself to be pulled along with Whiz out of the changing rooms, the doors clanging heavily behind them as they enter the corridor outside.
They pause for a moment to look up and down the corridor before veering off to their right; the route out of the simulation corridors as familiar to them as breathing. “Ankora’s?” Whiz offers as they walk. “My treat.”
Mara beams at him. “You know me so well, Whiz.”
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