maskormenacelogs | there are grave penalties for attempting to drive in florida

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there are grave penalties for attempting to drive in florida

WHO: Brendan, Manabu
WHERE: Heropa freeways
WHEN: early week of 6/26
WHAT: driving cars
WARNINGS: things crash

One Nonah disaster later, driving lessons resumed. To his dismay, much of early instruction involved a classroom and lecture. He managed to endure one of the most dry, boring powerpoint presentations on types of road signs only through the mercy of having Brendan there to suffer alongside him. Still, the punishment for starting to nod off was to watch ten minutes of gruesome car crashes in some attempt to impress the dire need to care very much about yield signs and lane lines.

Finally getting hands on a vehicle the following session was exciting...for ten minutes. Then it was two hours of moving nowhere, going over the control panel and scenarios and...ugh. All valuable information, of course, but Manabu was impatient. And he couldn't help but feel like their status as ImPorts gave the instructor some underlying need to be extra condescending and careful; as if the boys from other worlds had never sat in a car before. It was excruciating.

Days later they were finally at the real meat and potatoes of the course. No more loops around a parking lot, no more five-second stops at corners and driving veteran drivers insane.

"We'll hit the freeway today," the instructor said, digging around for a pen in her pocket. She glanced up at her students. "Which one of you wants to go first?"

Straight-backed with arms glued to his side, Manabu tried to look about half as impatient as he actually felt. He shot a glance over at Brendan, trying to hold off on straight-up running over to the car to get going. That wouldn't be fair.

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The thing is, Brendan is in no hurry to embarrass himself. He's used to people talking down to him - it's weirder when someone doesn't - so the whole process didn't grate on him nearly as badly as it did Manabu, who had apparently not been told the best revenge was to stay gracious and kick ass. And the best way to do that, in theory anyway, was to watch carefully, linger in the background and go last so he would have as much time as possible to absorb all the information.

Also steal a housemate's car and drive it at night until he got a hang of the controls, but that only worked back home since here, his roomies didn't have one, damnit.

"Manabu can go first if he wants," Brendan said, adjusting his glasses slightly so he didn't have to look at the poorly-contained and honestly adorable ball of energy that was his friend. "His world's tech is closer to this stuff than mine, I figure he'll be better at it from the get-go."

All he needed to hear was Manabu can go: he visibly brightens, breaking that stoic facade he was barely managing to put on, and Brendan doesn't even have to finish explaining his reasoning before Manabu is stepping over to collect the keys. The nullifier bound to his ankle has really lifted his spirits and shook off a lot of the discontent he'd been carrying on his shoulders for the weeks he'd had to spend ducking punches and nursing the bruises from others. He'd been worried about spending time encased in moving metal with a teacher teaching and pointing around him, but one near-fatal shooting and city-contained monster disaster later, Manabu was pretty confident he'd be fine.

He popped into the driver's seat, having to wriggle a little and fix the seat spacing so his knees wouldn't bump the panel locking the steering wheel in place. Aside from that, he waited for both Brendan and instructor to climb in. There was already a routine in place here from previous lessons: he had to wait for the checklist to start getting droned off, himself repeating while completing each task (adjust mirrors, seatbelt, keys stored safely, push button ignition...), but this wasn't too bad. The same kind of sound-off happened any time the Big One launched...though that felt more intense than a car.

"Okay," the instructor announced. "We'll head on the freeway out of the city, break, switch drivers, and head back here. Sound good? The route is already loaded in the GPS."

Manabu tapped through the menus on the instrument panel to get that map. "Got it...let's get to it."

The car grumbled to life, hardly the exhilarating road machine anyone would equate with a road trip, but beggars can't be choosers.

Brendan's still trying to puzzle out how he managed to kiss Manabu without headbutting him or something given he didn't have the power nulifier at that point. Far as he can figure, intent might've measured into it, or maybe it was just that life wasn't that cruel even to Manabu. Either way, he has to admit he feels safer doing this class with Manabu with the nulifier in place. He's a nice enough guy but that power's a damn curse.

He's rethinking the idea this will be safer as he watches Manabu scramble for the keys and, on the off chance this ends badly, gets into the passenger seat so that if injuries happen, the instructor will be okay, at least. Manabu's impatience is a bad omen.

"Chill, Sunset, the road's not going anywhere," he sighed, already regretting his decision to go second.

"Sunset?" the instructor echoed, a look on her face Manabu wished he didn't catch in the mirror. He felt his face flush well against his wishes, and he huffed, readjusting his grip on the wheel.

"Never mind that," he insisted, shifting gear and starting to pull out of the parking spot. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about nicknames with a stranger; it'd muddle his head with lots of troublesome, distracting thoughts and feelings. Thoughts and feelings he had no time for, mind.

It was still early in the afternoon, shortly after lunchtime, and so most of the traffic was mild and less harried than the rushes to and from work. All the better, since Manabu didn't particularly enjoy the stop-and-go nature of the downtown traffic. The prospect of traveling far and free, uninhibited by a light every half a mile, was very enticing. It was a bit affirming: he'd be actually moving forward somewhere, as opposed to the movement other aspects of his life still felt lacking by comparison.

He did regret not getting sunglasses, though; the sun was high and bright, alone up there without any cloud cover. It was a nice day, though, so if having to squint against the glare of a chrome bumper once in a while was the worst of it? It wasn't a problem. Even that flash of embarrassment from the nickname didn't last long out on the road, and Manabu even pleasantly hummed on his way to the freeway exit.

He hadn't meant to embarrass Manabu that time - which admittedly made it a bit of an exception. It just slipped out. He was comfortable around Manabu even after being shot down as a potential boyfriend, enough that he wasn't really in possession of a filter on some things.

Though he did feel guilty for distracting him on the road. That was not okay, and he muttered 'sorry' to his friend, making a mental note not to do that again. At least it was a distraction during the calmer part of the day; there weren't as many cars out and about as there usually was. The good weather, while standard for Brendan's world and his part of California, was never a certainty here and he hoped it would help with his own attempt at handling the car.

It was a bit of relief to see Manabu shake off the nickname slip up. After the whole kiss incident, he'd been worried that things might get permanently awkward between them, but they seemed to be back at a pretty solid level of friendship. Manabu seemed pretty willing to let the past be in the past, and Brendan appreciated that. And hey, if he didn't mind Brendan memorizing the road signs they were passing so he'd ace his own attempt at this route, so much the better.

Having the windows down would've made the drive more enjoyable, but the second he tried, the instructor quickly demanded they stay up; her clipboard and notes would go flapping everywhere, apparently. Well, alright.

He sped up once they reached the zipper lane, swerving into the flow of traffic with ease. His shoulders relaxed and he sunk back in the seat, finding open, faster driving much more comfortable than the stop-and-go of street blocks. Fewer variables and a familiar speed of motion makes it easier; it's no star fighter, and certainly not one of the SDF trains, but beggars can't be choosers. He would definitely understand the appeal of road trips, were he to ever think of taking a break.

"Better than running around on foot everywhere?" he offers after a few minutes, flashing a look over at Brendan. "Or the bus..."

"It is. Then again, everything's better than the bus." Brendan Frye, ray of sunshine - alright, to be fair, he usually used the bus after shit went wrong and he didn't like having to deal with people's looks when he got on with his hair going every which way and blood on his clothes.

This is definitely nicer, and Manabu's not as bad at this whole traffic thing as Brendan was expecting given the whole otherworldly aspect of their driving. It was a good day for this sort of thing. If there wasn't an instructor in the back and Manabu wasn't probably on the asexual/aromantic spectrum, it would've been a decent enough date atmosphere, all in all. But Manabu's just not into him.

It would probably suck less if the last time he'd ridden in the passenger seat hadn't been with an ex-girlfriend-of-sorts. At least Manabu's eyes are on the road so he doesn't have to see Brendan get wistful looking out the window, suddenly feeling homesick in only the sense that thoughts of home made him want to be sick.

While Brendan looked back and inward, Manabu's eyes were forward in more than one sense. Very rarely did he pause long enough to look back and mourn, and whenever he did, those were very tremendous interruptions. Questions of such character-shaking value as morality, love, justice...those things didn't rattle or shake Manabu very hard until he'd reached points in time where he simply couldn't advance without the weight of them suffocating him. Until something -- or someone -- made him stop, turn backward, and face it.

Staring down his brother's killer from the barrel of his gun. Watching a little girl struggle desperately to breathe, still begging for her mother. Having to choose between killing a man or watching him kill his comrade. Seeing his partner, his friend, look straight through him and say he was of no use to Manabu or anyone, better off dead.

Life really had to stop pulling punches to get Manabu to stop and pay attention...and grow.

It was why Manabu could keep coming back, despite every awkward or alarming thing that came up around Brendan. Despite the actual fear and confusion being confessed to, being praised in ways that made no sense, and the gut-wrenching guilt of simply not knowing how to properly accept or reject such things, Manabu raced forward. Forward and faster, accepting that what happened had happened, and that because things were fine now, he had at least done his best then. It had all worked out because of the now. The more steadfast he was in looking forward, the better he was at stifling his doubts and worries about himself and others. Being that way served him both well and ill; how well he recovered from the drawbacks was what saved him from complete folly.

Eyes forward was, obviously, not a guarantee he'd be prepared for everything. In this case, no amount of attention on the road was going to give him the means to stop what happened; he was only one person of many caught up in the sudden disaster.

It happened very fast: First, he had to stop just short of changing a lane as a motorcycle suddenly whizzed by, cutting him off, and zipping into the fast lane. After a little start, Manabu thought little of it as it blazed out of sight and mind. Minutes later, that very bike would start the chain reaction that had the semi truck in front of them suddenly swerve, braking hard, and starting to fill up two lanes.

Manabu tried to slow and get out of the way, but there were people behind him having the exact same problem. He wasn't going to be able to avoid hitting that truck, for how suddenly it was slowed versus how much resistance his own brakes gave. In the moment before impact, he twisted the wheel and sharply turned: The car behind them plowed into his door and pushed them into the side of the truck, which stopped them utterly.

By then, though, Manabu didn't see what happened; it was the brakes, the turn, the yelling, and then a heavy hit from the side...and then dark.

The average lifespan estimate for anyone involved with the drug scene in LA County, from investigators to gangsters, was thirty-four. Brendan had absorbed that fact and made his peace with it when he was very young. Death came for everyone, there was no changing that, and there wasn't much to live for. At most, he lived in the present or planned for the next few things that might happen. Future was a word for rich boys and girls with money to drop on designer purses, not him.

Things are different here, though. He lets his guard down here from time to time. It's oddly gratifying after spending so long being on edge to be able to do that without it backfiring. This time, though, window gazing manages to backfire, because he barely registers the motorcycle, and then everything whirls together in a blur of motion and metal and deafening sounds.

For a moment, his glasses lost to the impact, his mind didn't register he was in this car or that Manabu was nearby at all. For a few brief, dizzying seconds (minutes? his head hurt too much to process time properly) he was back in San Clemente, beaten up and coughing up blood on the pavement as Laura screamed for him to get back in the car. But no, no, he had insisted on leaving, he had a lead to follow, he sent her off, forced himself to his feet in the dull empty light of the evening, barely able to put one foot in front of the other-

The sharp lines of California's sparse trees and carefully tasteful stone walls wavered and blinked out of existence, replaced by the soft blurs of the world without his glasses, the sound of his breathing in the here and now, and a ringing headache that kept him rooted in the present. Blindly, he fumbled around, looking for Manabu as much as his actual glasses.

"Sunset? Where're you?" his words weren't clear like they would usually be, but after the head trauma he just took, it was the best he could manage.

He could probably marvel later about how this -- a pretty nasty bang-up -- was the first one since coming back that didn't result in splitting his nose. Thanks, airbag.

Searching hands wrestled Manabu out of the dark and he blinked slow, shifted slow, and thought slow, because even doing that much was a real slog. He lifted his head off the crumpled A-pillar which had come up to meet him when the other car banged into them; the lighter metals never put up much of a fight and had given way to press the grille into the driver door. That...didn't really register right away; Manabu just felt rather boxed in.

He slowly realized where he was and more or less why, which didn't alarm him so much until he remembered he wasn't alone in there. He grimaced, turning his head and forcing some focus back into his eyes to find Brendan, which gave him a mix of dread and relief.

"Here," he puffed, managing to grab hold of a searching wrist after a couple misses. "Right--here. Hold on."

He started to look around--forward first, because if there was any black smoke about then they were probably in a lot more trouble. But he saw none through the spider-web shattered windshield. He exhaled, looking back over at his friend.

Right. What's next.

"Hold still for a, a minute. What's hurting right now?"

"My head, my pride, nothing vital," he quipped weakly, breathing out a sigh of relief. Without giving a shit about the fact he'd promised himself not to get too physical with anyone who'd shot him down, Brendan reached out to hug him, poorly, given the positioning of the seats. "You're okay? Good. Then I can be mad at you with impunity."

He wasn't mad, though. Mostly he just felt nauseous and tired. His healing factor was boosted by sleep and he wanted to shut his eyes, drift off and not deal with this. But whatever little was left of his conscience informed him that wouldn't be right, so he just looked around the front of the car blearily for his glasses. "Can't see too well right now - can you nab my glasses for me, if they survived?"

Well, whatever universal...thing was out to give Manabu so much trouble seemed benevolent enough to leave Brendan mostly alone. That was good; he would've made up for the absence of ire on Brendan's behalf were he hurt badly.

He had another remark, but lost it right at the awkward side-hug. He blinked, then wiggled his unpinned arm to bend and let him somewhat exchange the sentiment, albeit with a weird little pat.

"Be mad later," he said, lifting his head so he could peer over Brendan's hair, searching for the mirror. The instructor...was she okay? And as for glasses-- "Mmh, uh--I don't know. Hang on. Ma'am?"

He squinted at the tilted mirror for the little bit of what he could see of her back there, not hearing much in reply. Damn.

"Brendan-- can your door open? I'll see about the glasses in a minute, but--" Ow. "But we need to make sure we're all okay first."

That was only because Manabu had been through too much for the universe to keep thwacking him. Eventually even bad luck ran out. Brendan tried to breathe through his nose to keep from hyperventilating, forcing himself to focus. It wasn't easy, but he was relieved that Manabu, being the driver, wasn't a smear on someone's car.

Turning, he pushed at his door and frowned. "It's stuck. Might be able to kick it open but it'll pop the whole thing off... which isn't a whole lot of extra damage." He drew in a deep breath, aware that this was probably going to hurt his legs a lot given the limits of his superstrength, but that silence from the back was freaking him out. Images of corpses past in his head, he didn't wait for other options before kicking out the door, hands fumbling with his seatbelt, which refused to come loose. "Shit. Climb over me, we'll be awkward when we're not looking at a possible vehicular manslaughter charge."

Probably not for them but definitely for the motorcycle driver. Brendan's parents were lawyers, he could bullshit his way through charging the guy with enough minor offenses to lock him away for years. Fortunately, his communicator for this place was still in his pocket, and he managed to extract it. "I'mma call 911. You check on her and I'll - do that. Ugh. Feels like my head is going to crack open." But somebody had to do it, and he couldn't exactly be of much use other than that at the moment.

While Brendan worked on that situation with the door, Manabu's eyes were still moving about, trying to get a full and proper read on the situation. It would've really impressed his crewmates back home...until they realized he was only actually following protocol in order because he physically couldn't do anything else yet.

In front was just the sight of the freeway traffic opposite, slowed to a snail's pace full of fearful gawkers. He made eye contact with just a few of them before turning to look to his left. He couldn't see the driver of the other car over that massive airbag, which he hoped served them as well as his own did him. To the right-- he grimaced, watching Brendan fumble to kick at the door, biting down on a plea to please be careful and not hurt yourself. At least there was enough room between them at the side of the truck to give them an out there.

He peered back through the mirror, hoping to see some new movement after Brendan's fidgeting and fumbling with belts and communicators, only drawn back to attention at that talk about his head. Manabu frowned.

"Hey." His voice wasn't that usual, hesitant good humor; it was level, stronger in crisis mode. "Slow down. Even if you can heal up faster, doesn't mean you're going to do us any favors pushing yourself. Sit tight for a minute and--"

Oh. Hey.

"Here." The glasses were plucked from the gear shift, pushed over toward Brendan's arm. "Make that call. If you can put them on speaker, do that. Let me see about..." Ow. Exhale. "That buckle..."

The lack of movement in the back, combined with the fact that the last time he'd been in a car he'd been on death's doorstep, was making him want to throw up despite not being one for nerves. He couldn't deal with somebody else dying, he really couldn't, not when non-imPort deaths were permanent and he was the one who had fucked up in life, he was the one who had it coming-

Manabu's voice cut through the dull roar of the headache combined with his racing thoughts. "Sorry, sorry. I. I just wanna make sure nobody got killed in this clusterfuck." He picked up his glasses, glad they only had one crack in them from their tumble forward and sideways. "Right. 911 is gonna want a road number, which were we on? Can't quite remember right now..." which is not a good sign, but his head just hurts so much, he can't be bothered to be worried at the moment. "You sure you're okay?"

Manabu bit down on a breath, looking back over at Brendan, seeing him start to lose it. As much as he wanted to empathize and fix that, he didn't have the means or time to, not when he was still unsure everyone in the car was still breathing and okay.

He reached over and put his hand over the quaking hand on the communicator.

"I'm stuck," he said bluntly. "My arm, my ankle. So I'm not going to start trying to crawl out and--make a big fuss yet. I'm fine, just stuck." He paused, trying to get a better read off Brendan from the look on his face, tilting his head to try to catch his gaze; if he could do anything to be assuring, he could at least look in control.

"Dial it, let me talk. Breathe slowly, okay?"

He dialed and handed Manabu the communicator, trying to crane his neck to look behind them. No luck. "D'you think I should try an' get out? I probably could." He felt oddly obligated to do so, even if the thought sounded exhausting. Everything sounded exhausting right now. He shut his eyes briefly, wanting to just black out.

The temptation to fall asleep was a bad mix with a headache and rising panic; he opened his eyes and felt the world spin all around him all over again, nausea flooding him. About the only reason he didn't throw up was that he wasn't sure how to do so at the moment.

Manabu propped the communicator on the dash to free up his hand while he reported out to the dispatcher; he wanted to anchor Brendan, starting to grow more concerned the more stable he himself became. He kept a hand on Brendan's shoulder while he laid out the situation as he knew it, and by some miracle a long groan sounded from the back just as he confessed his uncertainty about their passenger in the back. Again, that benevolent universal force taking a bit of pity on him...

He let the dispatcher sign off once he was sure they were talking about the same accident that they'd already gotten a small hailstorm of calls for in so many minutes.

"Sit tight a minute," he said, giving his attention back over to his friend. "You're looking pale. What's hurting?"

"My head," he breathed out when Manabu was done with the dispatcher. The dispatcher was a lot more competent than San Clemente ones and he was incredibly grateful for that. It helped put him at ease on a lot of levels. Death was something he didn't want to handle or have to see anymore, especially when the instructor was pretty nice to them. She deserved to be okay.

After several very deep, steady breaths, he admitted quietly, leaning over as if terrified the instructor might overhear, "The girl who -" he couldn't use the word rape, it made him ill, "-who I told you about, the one who used me when I couldn't fight back, she drove me to where she did it. I was beaten up and I couldn't see and - rambling, sorry. It was just, it was a lot like now. All I wanna do is run or black out or get somewhere safe and my head hurts too bad for me to even try it." And that's the real source of the terror: flashbacks and undealt with possible PTSD.

Manabu could feel panic try to crawl through his guts and under his skin; he swallowed and exhales carefully. He dipped his head to listen, eyes wincing while he followed the ramble out of this car and into another car, one in San Clemente. His grip on the shoulder tightened a little, like trying to keep the rest of him anchored in the present while he was going backward in time. Not a good situation to be half-stuck in, and hardly one he can fix on his own...But he wasn't going to let it get out of control, if he could avoid it.

"Okay." He shot a glance back over to his door very quickly before looking back. "It's okay. That--" He started to shift carefully, testing. "The worst of that--that moment. It's back there. And the worst of this--" He winced, pulling his arm until it hurt too much to get away without looking too pained. He exhales. "The worst of this is done, just...getting out. That's what's left. Right?"

Stay here, he pleaded, grimacing while carefully turning his arm. Don't panic. It's okay.

"You might have a concussion," he went on, letting Brendan's shoulder go so he could use the console between them as leverage to pull. "So your head's gonna...hurt a lot. From that. But--it's going to be okay. We'll get you out of this-- junk-- and aaaaha-owh-!"

His arm popped out from that mess of plastic and the seat, raw from being pulled so hard. He panted, trying to flex his fingers and only getting response from a couple. He quickly glanced back over, pushing a gritted smile on.

"It's just-- gonna be a pain to heal up from this. Haa..."

Brendan swore in Spanish when Manabu pops himself free, which he rarely did even back home unless he was drunk. Well, that was a less that great indicator of his health - though it probably made the impromptu diagnosis of a concussion correct, since it was so unusual for him. Out of instinct born from having to assess both Emily and Brian's injuries more than once back home, he turned towards Manabu and tried to figure out if anything looked broken.

Mostly, Manabu just looked bruised, but Brendan's experience with car accidents was nearly non-existent so he was willing to bet that something was broken, or at the very least that shoulder needed to be reset. They needed an actual doctor to look this over. "Shit, you look like half the highway ran you over. You gonna be alright, Sunset?" A slight huff, trying to keep himself distracted by talking. "Kinda wish this healing factor thing was transferable..."

"Don't worry," he assured, giving his arm a last wincing look before refocusing. Seat belt, right. "I'll be able to heal once I get...that nullifier off." He scowled, fidgeting around with his good hand to try and get a hold of the seat belt cap. The console got pushed over a bit to really pin it in there, huh. Just like his arm was.

Well, then.

"See where I'm holding?" He tilted himself so his head wasn't in the way. "Try and-- get a hold there. If you pull hard enough, it oughta pop off."

Manabu withdrew his hand and shifted again to sit back in his seat proper, trying to see past the deflated bag and wheel to down where his foot was stuck. Distant sirens overtaking the hums and horns of traffic caught his attention and gave him pause to listen, a shade relieved; at least they wouldn't be stranded for long.

Brendan had the vague thought that 'buckling your seatbelt' was innuendo in some parts of California, but he was just too tired to make jokes. He wasn't even sure he could put the sentence together correctly over the pounding of his heartbeat in his head.

With a soft exhale at the trainwreck that was his life, then a wince at his mental word choice, he leaned over and managed, after a few tries, to get ahold of the seatbelt cap, which he yanked back hard enough to get free. "There. Never say I didn't do you any favors; I am really tempted to go to sleep on your shoulder, you have no idea."

But with the sirens coming closer, he forced himself to stay awake.

"Ha." A distracted, filler noise; Manabu's attention was on trying to get his knee out from under the wheel. Twisting too much at the legs brought a fast, shooting pain up his leff, obliging he stop and sit still. The last thing he wanted to do, honestly. He sighed in a loud huff, letting his head bounce back against the headrest, still for just a beat before looking back over.

"Let the medics at least have a look first before that," he said. "Then that'll be it for favors from me."

Carefully he let his bum arm settle on his middle, feeling a little swirl of nausea come and go in giving it a glimpse. More than anything, though, the gnawing feeling of not doing enough started making him grow restless, breaking through the carefully sculpted calm in his expression. He scowled a little, mouth drawing back in a snarl in another flash of discomfort before it vanished again.

"Dammit," he muttered, shaking his head a little. Fuss about it later, when everyone was fine. Not now.

"Keep still," Brendan advised, drawing up several years of dealing with injured people in his life to note, "You might just make it worse if you try to move." He was pretty sure people had gotten themselves killed that way, but he foggy brain wasn't supplying any examples for him to draw upon.

He tried to force levity into the situation. "If you mess around and get yourself hurt worse than you already are, I'll kiss you in front of the EMTs. Don't test me." Because he needed Manabu to be okay, needed to know nobody was going home in a body bag. This needed to turn out alright.

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