Masks: the Ties that Bind (Issue 1: Bound by Fate)

[seatyger]

"Hi everyone! Good news - there are explosions!"

"Shoot!" came the curse from behind the shower curtain, followed by a flurry of activity. Moments later, a half-soapy form bounded out of the bathtub, only to slip on the edge and land on the tile floor with a resounding slap.

A faint female voice called, "Are you okay up there, chinksi?"

Lifting himself off the tile with a groan, Jamie Blackbear replied, "I'm fine, ina! Just slipped." And how, he thought as he quickly wicked away the lingering soap and water with a towel. Hopping into the closet as he donned his skivvies, he pulled out a compression bodysuit and his costume and dressed. Adding gloves, boots, mask, and helmet -- dad wouldn't let him ride without it -- Jamie sprinted out the door and cleared the stairs in a single practiced leap.

Breaking for the garage, he yelled to his mother, "Got a call, ina!" -- then skidded to a halt and backtracked to the kitchen. "Oh -- uh, do you have a twenty? Need donuts for everybody."

His mother smiled knowingly and gestured with her head, "There's one on the table." Jamie grabbed the bill, doffed his helmet to give his mom a kiss on the cheek, and was gone in an instant, the sounds of a motorcycle engine and garage door motor filtering in through the closed door.

A moment later, a middle-aged man departed the downstairs bathroom, folding his newspaper and entering the kitchen. Giving his wife a kiss on the cheek, he asked, "Was that Jamie?"

"He said he got a call."

Frowning, his father grunted his acknowledgement and walked over to the table. "Hey, have you seen the twenty I left here last night?..."

Spoiler: OOC

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chinksi is Lakota for "son," and ina is "mother". I'm probably not writing them in the proper case...

Fresh from his scheduled stop at Fred's Doughnuts, the young hero Tunweya raced along the Two-Two -- more formally known as State Route 22 -- toward Timberlane Valley on his highly-customized Indian (because, of course, it is) FTR 1200. The roar of its engine nothing more than a whispering whir as he weaved through the light early-morning traffic at a blazing 160, his heads-up display led him on the most-efficient course between the other commuters, who were largely unaware of his existence.

By the time Tunweya darted across an opening in traffic to the Timberlane project exit, the situation was clear, with the armored disc throwers wreaking havoc and herding the workers. He found a hidden spot to park the bike, and traded his helmet for his bow as he stepped out from the shadows.

His thigh-length tunic hugged his torso just enough to not be in the way of his athletics, it's largely-charcoal-black color broken by the sewn-in inverted chevron of "bone" armor over his chest and tan-colored shoulder pieces that blended into the broad stripe that ran down the outer half of his sleeves and gloves. His trousers and boots shared the same broad tan stripe on the outer third of the fabric. A high-tech quiver -- one of the many things for which he had to thank Firefly's genius -- gave him quick access to the variety of arrows he regularly used, which contrasted with the simplicity of the recurve bow he held in his left hand.

With a thought, his talisman camouflaged him against the background visuals and sounds, and he brought his phone up to his ear. "Okay, ladies, coffee and donuts are here. Where are you? And are you seeing this?"