Itty Bitty Pieces



Cameo by:


Scene Title Itty Bitty Pieces
Synopsis Devi wakes up to a surprise in her garage.
Date September 9, 2009

Anarchy Customs: Garage

This three story building is constructed from old, cracked concrete and cinder blocks, the naturally gray hue is long since caked with the common signs of neglect and vagrancy, filth and graffiti, common on the island. The graffiti here, however, seems notably fresh.

The entrances to the buildings are too wide, large bay garage doors. The words 'Anarchy Customs' are painted in chaotic letters on each. Just inside a large garage is home to various motorcycles and parts in different states of dismantling, repair, reconstruction, or destruction. The walls are cluttered with various tools, mobbed further with stolen street signs and more untamable, fresh graffiti. The smell of oil clings to the air as eagerly as the grease stains spattered on the concrete floor.

Across from the large, bay garage doors, a single black-iron, spiraling staircase is set beside the opposite wall, corking up to the floor overhead.

Wednesday mornings for many - whatever time of the actual morning that might be depends upon the individuals themselves - when they come to work is to sit down at their desk with their morning coffee and tackle their day's problems/tasks/issues head on. For some that means a commute, others a short walk or bike ride. For Devi? this means heading downstairs. When one lives above their place of work it makes for a nice and very short commute. This morning however, when Devi descends, ascends or otherwise comes into her shop at whatever hour of the day it is that she actually comes, it's likely to not what she left it like when she went to sleep the night before.

One of the bikes she'd been working on, one of her own is sprawled across the floor in pieces.


All their individual components laid out here and there, the bike broken down, dissasembled, taken apart and lined up as if ready to put it back together again. Every available square inch of the floor is taken up by her bike.

"Holy shit!"

Devi's knuckles are white as she anchors herself with a death grip onto the stairwell railing, allowing her to lean forward and scan over the organized mess that was once a functioning motorcycle.

"Holy shit!" This time she's shouting as she steps down off the spiral staircase and tiptoes her big boots around the pieces. Cause her morning hadn't been bad enough - she'd woken up with enough of a headache to warrant an effort to make coffee rather than grab a beer. She's even groggy despite the drug-aided sleep from the night before.

"What the fuck is going on here?" She instantly scans the garage as she sets her coffee mug aside, trading it for a small sidearm she dig out of the nearest work bench. Rather goofy by all means - considering her ruffled bed-head and her PJ's with lovely, bow-wearing skulls on them.

Walls don't talk sadly and so Devi will get no answer from them nor the concrete floor bearing her deconstructed bike. Everything else in the shop is as she left it. Tools where they should be, laid in their proper spots and as they normally look. Rags in their bin, though perhaps one or two more that are greasy as to be expected if they were used. Expensive equipment.

Remains where it should be. Not stolen or pilfered or taken as one might expect if she was broken into.

"Mother…" The empty room is spared more of the biker's fowl cussings as she bends at the knees, dipping into a crouch that would be almost predatory - were it not for her ridiculous state of attire. She cranes out over one of the nearest pieces of equipment and extends her gun…

Poke! She cringes and peeks through the still of one eyelid. It's not alive. Not possessed. Right?

Suddenly, the bike starts to assemble itself, some otherworldly robot taking it's place piece by piece that will tell Devi that she is the earths only chance for survi… not.

Does this look like transformers to you? The piece just moves in accordance with Devi's poking, making a sound commensurate with it's material and state of being. A benign piece of motorcycle, awaiting to be assembled.

Devi slumps. "Fuckin' Evos." Such has been her catch phrase as of late, even if it often goes unspoken. With a little adjustment of her weight she flops back onto her bottom, knees popping up accordingly to lay her forearms across them. Her gun, easily set aside, is traded for a cell phone.

The woman glares at the little electronic, as if demanding it behave, before grumbling in surrender and punching in Wendy's phone number.

Five rings later, the phone line connects Wendy's voice flaring to life over the line, albeit with the quality you expect from speakerphone. "Helllo" So god damned cheerful. In the background there's the sound of tapping, of a a small hammer hitting the back end of a chisel.

"What did you do to me, woman?" Devi demands rather ignorantly. Or, perhaps just childishly hopefully that this is a mess that can be reversed. She keeps her tone curt and short, fitting for the pout she has when she picks up a piece of her metallic baby and rolls it between her fingers. "Poor Glaxia," she mumbles just for herself.

"Who the fuck is this?" Gone is the cheerfulness and in it's place is wariness and perhaps resentment that whomever is on the other line is blaming her for something that she has no clue what she even did. The chiseling sound stops on her end and off of her stool towards the speakerphone proper installed in her studio. She'd turned it on via a hand free thing she could tap with her foot.

"Devi," she grumbles, her attention rolling up to the bare ceiling overhead. "You mentioned weirdness last time ya came around. Well - I found my bike torn to itty bitty bits." She swaps one piece for another. Her handle bar! Poor baby! She tucks the phone between her ear and shoulder to use a PJ pant leg in polishing the chrome. "So, let's hear it. What've I got, doc?" Apparently this was some sort of illness, then?

There's a snort across the line as Wendy starts laughing and there seems to be no end to the laughter in sight either. The brunette is doubled over in her studio with no regard for the strange look from the hulk who's taken up living in her livingroom for the next week and change at least.

The little cell phone is pulled away to receive a disgruntled snarl. Grr.

She brings it back to her ear… And, pulls it away. She rolls her eyes and calls out towards the phone. "Oh! I'm happy you're so f'in' amused, love." She holds the phone at a distance, hoping the laughter will die.

"Sorry" between receding fits of laughter. "I'm sorry, just.. I didn't expect to hear from you ever again. you seemed pissed at me" IT's less now, more a background laugh. "What happened?"

The phone is allowed access back to her pierced ear. "Was workin' on one of my bike projects last night. Went to bed. Came down. And… POOF!" She sets the handlebar back where she'd found it. "My fricken' bike is in pieces man! Oh, very nicely arranged pretty pieces. But, I can't ride just a carburetor, dude. What the hell's goin' on?"

"I don't know Ink. You tell me. You're the one with that ability" Wendy so thoughtfully points out. "Or are you still pissed at me for pointing out that you have an ability" Bike laid out in pieces. Wow. She'd heard the stories from one guy. Then there's been some crazy ass running around the city a couple months ago that she'd had the opportunity to brush up against. Being called boss by some crazy numbered helmet wearing guys.

"Congratulations Devi. you really like machines"

"Well, thanks Mrs. Obvious."

Devi slumped back, leaning against the cold, iron railing. She nudged a piston with the toe of her boot. "Alright. Lay it out for me, Angle Eyes." Her voice was more at ease now. She'd have to come to terms with this. Besides, she wanted her bike back - and 'Angel Eyes' was her only link to figuring this mess o' shit out.

"What is there to lay out. Fuck Devi, it's not like by touching you I get a manual or anything. I just get a feeling and that one matched up with some guy I met in sanfranciso like a year ago? And some other crazy guy who's running around the city. I think he called it… Fuck, I don't have my books, i'll have to get it from Bella. But, he could put together machines and take em apart like they were nobody's business. He was selling a really beautiful vintage he'd fixed up and we were getting it for my dad" derailing Wendy, derailing. "Come on, really, you took a bike apart? Put it back together" there's an invisible shrug from the other woman

Grumble grumble.

"I thought this was your… thing." God damn it. "Meh. Forget it. Anyway, thanks for the heads up. I gotta start piece this pile of bits back into a bike. You take it easy, Angel Eyes." There's the click of a dead line before Wendy can even respond.

Devi hauls herself up to her feet and grabs a bin, beginning to collect the parts.

"Fuckin' Evos."

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