MP5's fiction

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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by Kiskaloo on Sun 8 May 2011 - 15:09

@Professor Voodoo wrote:
Chapter 7: Zero to Sixty in a New York Minute

Successfully managing to disarm their opponents, they disengaged and dashed for the number 6 train and dove inside just as the recorded voice announcing the closing of the doors came over the speakers.

"Stand clear of the closing doors, please."

If shots had been fired in a crowed subway station would the train still take off? Seems like the whole area would get locked down in a hurry.

Well this is NYC. Wink

Subway Announcement wrote:
"You are on a Westbound 6 Train. Next stop is 33rd and Lexington. Shots are fired from the left at Lexington."

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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by MP5 on Sun 8 May 2011 - 15:18

@Professor Voodoo wrote:And wrapping it up...

he accelerated and aimed for the left-rear corner of the BMW, forcing the sedan into a slide—the classic PIT maneuver, as it were.
Difficult to do in a smaller, lighter car. It would be fun to see Allison & Rush match their skills on a race course...Limerock Park is probably the closest to NYC.
If Rush weren't so busy doing rescue jobs and finding people, they could. As for the PIT maneuver, well, 'Sam' is probably significantly heavier, but there's probably more than enough horsepower to overcome the weight.

she looked in her rearview mirror, her eyes widened to spot a red Eurocopter AS350 bearing down on them with a door gunner wielding an M240 Light Machine Gun.
Someone is making their visit to New York memorable. We've not yet heard what Pietro & Elenora clued into to attract so much attention.
Yeah, I've been pretty vague about that. This will likely be expounded upon in the next couple of chapters.

he drew his Wilson Combat and started taking potshots at the helicopter just to get the attention of those onboard.
Good friend to have. Does he speak Italian? Might want to hire this guy as a handler.
As far as I know, he does not speak Italian. And in terms of hiring him as a handler? Forget it. He knows how to fight, but I highly doubt he would be much for doing their dirty business. He atones for Sam's death by doing what he can to save others.

Somehow, they managed not to attract the attention of New York's finest or the highway patrol despite racing down the highway with the speedometer needle hovering close to ninety miles an hour.
Interference by Cousin Tommy perhaps...or the cops might be a bit distracted by the helicopter crash?
Well, with everything going on in the city, the helicopter crash is just the latest occurence in the NYPD's busy day.

we can go see that musical you were interested in-'Thoroughly Modern Millie', I believe it was?"Allison quickly wrapped Brian in a powerful hug. "Brian, you're the coolest older brother ever!"
Triela: Oh god, please don't let her come home singing all the songs...or worse, teaching them to 'Etta & Rico.
This actually gave me an idea-- instead of a written test, this would be an assignment given by Nicolette for her performing arts class at the end of their 'American Theatre' unit-- assemble a cast, rehearse, and then perform a musical in front of a live audience. This is where we find some cyborgs who you wouldn't expect to show some serious acting and singing chops.

"I've always wanted to give a Mini Cooper a try..."

"I'll make sure to get the S version if the John Cooper Works version isn't available."
Jeeze, I need their connections. I usually get stuck with a Camry when I pick up a rental at the airport.
Well, I took some creative liberties. I know that ZipCar offers the Mini convertible as a rentable vehicle, so I just extrapolated form there.

Well done, MP5. Although I thought a few of the elements of his car were a bit goofy I grew to like the character of Rush...hope he makes another appearance in part two.
I should've been more careful about putting 'To Be Continued' there... this is probably the first and last appearance of Rush as a character, though he might be mentioned in the future.

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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by ChaosKin640 on Sun 8 May 2011 - 16:00

Damn, I can’t believe I actually forgot to respond to this, sorry MP5.
First off, great installment. It was very fun and fast-paced, which I think is something that we’ve come to expect and enjoy about your work. And of course, thanks for Lucy’s cameo.

Finally...a gamer that knows to use headphones! Hallelujah!
Given the decibel levels that she typically plays her games at, I don’t think Lucy was given much of a choice on this matter. It was either that, or see her precious computer pitched out the window.

Would an Agency cyborg necessarily consider "handler" a bad term?
The 2nd Gen girls might. Dependent on their outside exposure, most of them are old enough that they would be aware of the negative connotations associated with the term within normal society. But as MP5 said above, whether or not a cyborg personally considers it a bad term would likely depend on their own handler’s feelings about it.

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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by ElfenMagix on Mon 9 May 2011 - 2:27

@Kiskaloo wrote:
@Professor Voodoo wrote:
Chapter 7: Zero to Sixty in a New York Minute

Successfully managing to disarm their opponents, they disengaged and dashed for the number 6 train and dove inside just as the recorded voice announcing the closing of the doors came over the speakers.

"Stand clear of the closing doors, please."

If shots had been fired in a crowed subway station would the train still take off? Seems like the whole area would get locked down in a hurry.

Well this is NYC. Wink

Not being a Killjoy, but NYC MTA (New York City Metropolitan Transit Authority) procedures says that in such incidences, all trains are to stop where they are at and hold their positions until the situation is cleared. In situations which would take hours, all possible trains are rerouted to the next track; Local to Express or Express to Local depending on the train's track situation.



@Kiskaloo wrote:
Subway Announcement wrote:
"You are on a Westbound 6 Train. Next stop is 33rd and Lexington. Shots are fired from the left at Lexington."
The #6 train is a North/South Route. It is on Lexington Avenue, and thus called the Lexington Avenue Line. But South of 42nd street it runs on Park Avenue, and South of 14th Street it runs down 4th Ave. Below Canal Street it runs down Center Street to Brooklyn Bridge. Its the way Manhattan Island is shaped and the ending of streets and avenues at various points that causes this.

Though a subway announcement would never say such a thing publicly, "Shots are fired from the left at Lexington." throws it off because of the West Bound #6 train.

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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by Kiskaloo on Mon 9 May 2011 - 2:39

Well I last road the MTA in 2003 and I just recall it saying "You're on a (something )train to (somewhere). Next stop is (some station). Doors open on the left at (some station)."

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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by Pax on Wed 8 Feb 2012 - 3:11

Finally caught up with this fic, really enjoying it so far. I cant really think of any nitpicks or CC other than theres no more for me to read right now, haha. Really cant wait for more MP5!!

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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by boomer_gonz on Wed 8 Feb 2012 - 5:42

@ElfenMagix wrote:
Not being a Killjoy, but NYC MTA (New York City Metropolitan Transit Authority) procedures says that in such incidences, all trains are to stop where they are at and hold their positions until the situation is cleared. In situations which would take hours, all possible trains are rerouted to the next track; Local to Express or Express to Local depending on the train's track situation.

Train Conductor: Get shot or Get fired? Get shot or Get fired? ....Man; !@#k this!! I'm gone!!

Evil

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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by ElfenMagix on Thu 9 Feb 2012 - 1:08

@boomer_gonz wrote:
@ElfenMagix wrote:
Not being a Killjoy, but NYC MTA (New York City Metropolitan Transit Authority) procedures says that in such incidences, all trains are to stop where they are at and hold their positions until the situation is cleared. In situations which would take hours, all possible trains are rerouted to the next track; Local to Express or Express to Local depending on the train's track situation.

Train Conductor: Get shot or Get fired? Get shot or Get fired? ....Man; !@#k this!! I'm gone!!

Evil
That has happened before Boomer.
Unfortunately for the conductor, he's in a wheelchair for life.

Story: Some asshole was chasing his girlfriend and wanted to kill her for some reason. The conductor saw what was happening so he opened the door for her to get in and close it so the boyfriend to not get in. The asshole boyfriend then shot up the side of the train killing the girlfriend and wounding the conductor.
http://www.nytimes.com/1992/02/28/nyregion/woman-shot-to-death-on-subway-train.html

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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by taerKitty on Thu 9 Feb 2012 - 1:24

Sadly, he lasted about a year and a half. He needed around-the-clock care, according to his obit. Not fun.

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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by MP5 on Sun 29 Apr 2012 - 13:13

After a year since the last update (with delays generally involving real life), I finally finished Chapter 8 of TTSC.

Cue the music.

Chapter 8: Rumble in the Jungle

In this chapter:
--Allison plays Time Crisis...
--Rico plays a Banjo...
--...and Triela delivers a baby.

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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by Alfisti on Tue 8 May 2012 - 7:28

I think there's some guitar-playing cyborgs around... someone needs to teach Rico "Dueling Banjos".

Whew, finally cleared the decks enough to have a read. Nicely done mate.

I assume some of the start was setting up for later chapters?

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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by MP5 on Tue 8 May 2012 - 15:47

@Alfisti wrote:I think there's some guitar-playing cyborgs around... someone needs to teach Rico "Dueling Banjos".

Whew, finally cleared the decks enough to have a read. Nicely done mate.

I assume some of the start was setting up for later chapters?

Cheers.

As for Rico learning 'Dueling Banjos', well, I know Jamie and Becky play guitar, but I think the latter is more likely to teach her how to play that particular ditty. Just-- Jean probably shouldn't be anywhere within earshot when it happens.

And yeah, the beginning was primarily setups for the forthcoming 'Milan Job' chapter, but first, there will be a 'downtime' chapter before I get anywhere near that.

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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by MP5 on Fri 31 Jan 2014 - 1:05

Oh look, after all this time, I wrote something and actually FINISHED it.

Spoiler:

"Maxine's Goodbye" (Working Title)
First off, I am glad you are unharmed. For now, you will be shaken up, the adrenaline will be flowing, you might feel a little bit nauseous and scared, but you will live, and you are unhurt.

Secondly, all that time we spent together practicing those skills you learned was not time wasted. Up to this day, you used every move in your playbook to try and avoid what had happened in the first place, but not everyone can be as fastidious as you have been with me. You did everything you could, and for that I am proud of you. These things happen sometimes, even if you do everything you can to stop it from happening.

Finally, before I leave you for good; before I am sent to where all of my kind go to die, I want to say something to you, even though I know you will not hear me, for I cannot actually speak:

I cherish the time we had together.

We first met one crisp fall afternoon. You had just gotten your license a month prior, and your parents were taking you around to find your first car. Meanwhile, I was just sitting in someone's driveway, and I hadn't been moved for the better part of a year and it showed in my tired paint, my flat tires, dead battery, the grime and grit in my interior which at this point was mostly composed of fast food bags, crumpled soda cups, cigarette ash, and who knows what other traces of my then-owner's lifestyle. A few others before you had come to look at me, frowned, and decided to take their money elsewhere. Not you, however. I had come off the assembly line with a manual transmission, and as soon as you opened that door and saw that 5-speed gear shifter, you had a gleam in your eye as if you had found a long-lost treasure. You looked at me with the same eyes that a sports car devotee would have. Your confused parents showed concern about you driving a manual car, as you had passed your license test with an automatic, but you would not budge; you were adamant that your first car had to be me, had to be *this* 1994 Mazda MX-3 that looked like an old, forgotten jellybean on wheels.

Seven hundred dollars, a jump-start, and a crooked, yellow-toothed smile from my previous owner later, you were driving me home on old, rotted-out tires, sitting in a seat with too many cigarette burns, gripping a steering wheel that in all respects should have been handled with a pair of gloves with the way spots of the plastic would come away in someone's hands. But you drove me with a grin; like you were driving a Lotus and not a Japanese 1990s relic. You didn't care that you were having to start me again every fourth stop light or so because you were still getting the hang of driving standard on a worn clutch; you didn't care that my check engine light was on, since little did I know you already had the tools to remedy that problem. In all the 170,000 miles I had been driven up to that point, I have never met someone who was so willing to address all the problems I developed over the years; have never been cared for so thoroughly by someone who was so genuinely glad to spend time with me.

I knew things would be different when you took me home and parked me. You pulled into your driveway, but you didn't just stop once I was out of the street. You took the extra few seconds to put me in a garage, and at that one that wasn't filled with random junk or relics of past decades' fads, but a real, honest-to-goodness garage with tools neatly organized in a way that you would have easy access to them for all the repairs and maintenance you would be doing yourself. You gave me a roof over my head for the first time in over 20 years. You gave me a warm, safe home that isolated me from the elements and bird droppings and extreme cold and heat. In the months that followed, you took me everywhere you could: work, school, parties, car meets, football games, the city, vacations... Every spare penny you got from slaving over a hot stove for $8.50 an hour, or walking neighborhood dogs, or shoveling snow in the winter, you invested directly in my upkeep. You only ever put mid-grade or even premium in my tank, even though you knew it would cost more, same with your use of synthetic oil and high-mileage filters that you changed every 15,000 miles on the dot, without fail. For the first time in years, my exterior and interior were given proper attention beyond just regular trash removal and trips to the car wash. You spent entire weekends detailing my interior; you replaced my shabby steering wheel with an aftermarket quick-release unit that not only looked great to you, but would also prevent someone from simply driving away with me.

You went even further in taking the years off my appearance by replacing every single rusted, dented, and gouged body panel and then sending me off to a paint shop your hot-rodding uncle ran. When I came back, I was painted Alfa Red, a color that I would never have been available from the factory in, but you specified it so that I would stand out in the parking lot. It also meant that every time you left me parked, you spared a second glance back at me, and I always saw you smile. Finally, you decided you liked me so much that you named me: 'Maxine' was to be my name, and with no hint of embarrassment, when you were asked if you had a woman in your life, you mentioned me, and there would be confused looks from 'normal' people, but your friends at the car meets understood. Your own mother aside, I was the first woman in your life.

All that you had done at that point would have been more than enough, but for some reason you kept putting more money into me. A rebuilt motor with free-flowing heads that you and your friends swapped in one weekend; a bigger exhaust system; bigger brakes, a set of high-performance wheels and tires for autocrossing; another set of wheels and tires for the snow; a coilover suspension kit... You eventually sank at least twice, if not three times, what you had bought me for into upgrading me even though I was only ever meant to get you from point A to B and back. You got a bit of ribbing for that from your friends at the meets, but you just took their comments with a grin.

In all the time we had spent together, I had been with you in many of the moments that defined who you are today. I saw you fall in love with a pretty girl from work who was stranded at a bus stop in the rain, and I still remember the heat from my tires when she broke up with you half a year later because you weren't willing to get rid of me because I was too loud and uncomfortable for her and you drove me hard to try and escape your feelings only to park somewhere no one would see you and you soaked my steering wheel with your tears for a full hour. You moved on from that, and eventually your friends introduced you to a girl at one of the meets who liked the both of us. I was a little jealous when she started monopolizing you and showed it by throwing up Check Engine Lights that actually meant something would inconvenience you in your daily commute, but she showed me kindness and understanding and went out of her way to maintain me with as much care as you did, so I learned to accept the fact that she would be a part of your life, to this very day.

Those times I had you all to myself, however, like when the two of you went autocrossing in separate cars? I cherished those times the most. You drove me in a manner I was likely only occasionally meant to be driven, but by this point you had sunk enough money into me that I could be called on to do so repeatedly. Through those autocross sessions, I discovered what I was capable of with a dedicated driver and the right setup; you discovered skills that made you faster as a driver and developed reflexes that helped compensate for the inattentiveness of other drivers on the road; reflexes that you unfortunately had to rely on more times than you could count on your hands and fingers.

I remember the grin on your face when you graduated from high school, and the long road trip I took with you, your sweetheart, and your friends that summer to The 'Tail of the Dragon'down south-- Your autocross skills certainly helped you tackle all 318 curves, though my tires and brakes were boiling by the time you all pulled over to stop for lunch. I remember being loaded with as many things as you could fit into me when it was time for you to go off to college, and how often we got sideways when classes there were cancelled due to inclement weather and you went hooning in the snow with some of your new friends in the autocross club. I remember when you graduated with a master's degree in mechanical engineering, too, and you did a burnout to celebrate, though it required some creativity and use of the handbrake to get me to smoke my tires properly.

As the years went by and you grew into a man, so did your relationship with the only other person I would let take care of me. You moved in together; I shared garage space with a younger, bigger, faster member of my family tree, that MazdaSpeed3 of hers with a blow-off valve you could hear three blocks away. There were times I wished I had more power so that I wouldn't embarrass you when your woman had to keep slowing down because that turbocharger under her hood meant I could never keep up on the highway.

Of course, I aged like any car as old as I was did, and with a full-time job, it was getting more difficult to maintain me on any regular basis, and with four seasons every year, I did develop rust here and there. I was getting creaky in places, my piston rings were starting to wear, I lost a little more power every year despite your best efforts and good parts were getting harder to find. Yet for all that, you refused to sell me, or buy a second car so that I would get some rest. I never wanted to be stuck in a garage for very long, anyway, and I gave everything I had to made sure I got you where you needed to go and back home to your beloved reliably and in one piece.

The signs were there, however, that I was starting to fade away. One morning, I wouldn't start at all, even with a jump, and my battery was still good. In the end, my starter motor had to be replaced. Then the Alternator, when you noticed my volt meter was dropping like a stone while cruising on the highway--that was an adventure, wasn't it? Then, after I'd had an episode of overheating, you and one of your mechanic friends pulled my motor apart and found that while my cylinder head thankfully hadn't warped, I would need an expensive rebuild in a few months, and as I was your only car, that would leave you without a ride for a fair amount of time, and you had just bought an engagement ring for your girlfriend. You had to make a choice where to spend your money. So of course I witnessed the moment you got down on a knee in front of everyone gathered at the weekly meet and proposed to her. She said yes. Everyone was happy, I was proud of you, and I didn't dare ruin the mood by breaking down on the way back home.

That was a week ago, which brings us to where we are now. You were just on your way home from work, waiting for your turn to proceed at the intersection, and I could hear you talking to yourself about trying to get this upcoming engine rebuild done before you got married. The light turned green, you looked left, right, and left again as you let out the clutch and I almost stalled, but a little bit more on the throttle got me going. We proceeded through the intersection, and as we were about to clear it, you slammed the brakes and honked your horn, and then the world spun furiously in an instant, everything screeching, a loud bang, the noise of crunching metal, horns honking from every which way, and then finally it stopped.

You opened your eyes, having clenched them shut when I was struck and we went into a spin. Your breath was coming in ragged gasps, almost hyperventilating due to the adrenaline rush. You patted yourself down with one hand, searching for injuries, relieved and amazed to find none. Someone came up to your window.

"Are you all right?!"

You turned to them, wide-eyed, nodding slowly. You pulled at the door handle, but it wouldn't budge. The door was wedged shut. Unbuckling your seatbelt, you tried the passenger's side door, and that one opened with some effort. Reaching for the hazard button, you pressed it in and the familiar click of turn signal relays was audible. After switching off the ignition (no way I was going to start, after all), you clambered over the center console and out the passenger's side door, getting unsteadily to your feet before you walked away from me. Finally, you stopped and turned to look at what had just happened, and I heard you finally utter your first words after what just happened.

"Oh, shit. Oh no. Oh, God, no."

Emergency services were starting to arrive at the scene. Someone had the foresight to call 911 after seeing what had happened to you. Volunteer firefighters were directing traffic around the crash scene and getting out sawdust to soak up the many fluids leaking from where my front fascia used to be. My left-front wheel was bent at some crazy angle, the fender covering that area ripped away, revealing one of the coilover shocks you installed so long ago, now another mangled piece of metal. My left headlight was gone and the right headlight hung out of its mounting by a few wires. My radiator was also damaged beyond repair, coolant freely pouring onto the pavement and mixing with transmission oil, motor oil from the cracked sump pan, power steering fluid, and probably a bit of fuel from a damaged fuel line.

Did I feel any pain? Yes. Being struck like that certainly hurts. However, I wouldn't have been able to say I was hurt anyway, because I can't actually talk. But you looked at me as if you were gazing upon an injured loved one, and there was so much despair in your eyes. You kept staring at my broken form even while the paramedics came to check on you, only removing your attention when they required you to do so. Even as you called your fiancé to assure her you were all right, you still kept looking back at me, the distress in your eyes palpable. As the police approached you to take your account of the accident, your eyes, full of worry, are still locked onto me.

I don't feel any pain now, however. I don't really feel anything in these moments, which are in all likelihood my last. I don't think your insurance company will consider me worth repairing; better to cut you a check for another car and write me off. Firefighters and police crowd around me, some taking pictures as evidence, others sweeping away the sawdust that's now soaked with the fluids that kept me alive. A hook is being attached to my rear axle, and I am being pulled onto a smooth, cold, metal surface-- the wrecker has come to take me away to my final resting place. I can see you standing at the side of the road, silent tears coming from your eyes as you look at me, your head resting on the shoulder of your fiancé embracing you. You pull away from her, gesturing to the sight of me being winched onto the flatbed, and you bury your face in her chest and she embraces you even tighter.

If those tears are for me, dry your eyes. In my final moments, I take comfort in knowing that I protected you from harm. I am happy that the last thing I did before my body is sent off to the junkyard is protect you so that you live to drive another day. Over the years, I have been made all too aware that I am replaceable; that there will always be a newer, faster, better car than me; that I was meant to be disposed of at some point, that I eventually outlive my usefulness. I have always known that in the end, I am little more than a barely-coherent structure of metal, glass, rubber, plastic, and oil and fuel that will end up rusting away with hundreds, if not thousands of others like myself. It was always just a matter of when I would finally be damaged beyond what was worth repairing.

But you didn't see me that way. Even though I was a beat-up lump that had been used and abused as disposable transportation, you cared for me as you would care for a loved one. You didn't see me as just a tool or an appliance, you saw me as an indispensable companion in your life. You lavished attention on me, gave me back my youth with the fortune you spent on parts and repair, showed me what I was capable of with the right equipment and technique, done feats with me that none of my previous owners dared or did with such an immense amount of control and calm. You made me an integral part of your life as you grew from adolescent to adult, and every mile of the way, you showed me the kind of loyalty normally reserved for dream cars like Ferraris and McLarens and classic muscle cars.

The years we had together were the best years of my life. If I could be born again as a human, as a woman, I would seek out a man as splendid and loving as you, but I know deep down that you are one-of-a-kind and I would never have that kind of fortune. I am glad that I met you, and that you drove and maintained me for all these years. I don't regret any of it, and I would do it all over again.

You may have seen your 'Maxine' as the first woman in your life, as your first love, but this is where we part ways. I am a replaceable machine. You are not. It's time to move on. You *will* find another car and fall in love with it, whether it be a sporty Miata from my family, or something more 'sensible' from one of the other families out there. Whatever the case may be, My final wish is that you show it the same love you showed me, and that it returns that love for years to come, hopefully even to your offspring, should you and your fiancé decide to have any.



Goodbye, my dear owner. Maxine loves you very much.




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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by tremec6speed on Fri 31 Jan 2014 - 1:58

Poor MX-3  Maxine, a friend to the end.  Sad 
Nice tale!  head bang
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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by Thescarredman on Sun 2 Feb 2014 - 23:57

First time I ever got misty-eyed reading about a car. Thanks, MP.
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Re: MP5's fiction

Post by MP5 on Mon 3 Feb 2014 - 20:54

The first four chapters of my foray into original fiction have been published on Fictionpress.com. The story is called 'Veloce!' and here is what I guess one could call an abstract to get the reader hooked:

What if something was so important to you that it took on a life of its own? 19-year-old Katsuro Mizushima finds out that when you love something that much, anything can happen. His story begins as one of a young man and his first car, but like any vehicle that cannot merely be judged by the sum of its parts, it becomes so much more than that.

First chapter can be found here.

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Original Characters : Allison-Brian McDonnell Fratello

Comments : You gotta ask the cutie before you touch dat booty.

Registration date : 2010-02-01

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Re: MP5's fiction

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