Chrome, Concrete, and a Craving for Quiet (Spoiler Alert: He Ain't Getting It).
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Author Note: Hey there, fellow travelers! If you're feeling a little claustrophobic just reading about Springville Valley, trust me, Bonny gets it. This chapter marks a bit of a shift in his usual landscape, and let's just say he's less than thrilled. Keep an eye out for the subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways his discomfort manifests. It's all part of the fun... or at least, I think so.
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Bonny's relationship with his work transcended the confines of routine obligation. It was far more than a career or a paycheck—it was a devotion, an intimate connection that breathed life into his everyday existence. For him, every project, no matter how mundane it might appear to others, was a sacred ritual. It wasn't just about getting the job done—it was about how he did it, the pride in the detail, the satisfaction in the process, the beauty of doing something well.
Work was where Bonny came alive. Where others saw deadlines and demands, he saw canvas and opportunity. Each challenge invited a new brushstroke of ingenuity. He approached his tasks with the mindfulness of a scholar dissecting a centuries-old manuscript and the passion of an artist bringing a vision to life. There was grace in the way he moved through his work, like a man dancing to a rhythm only he could hear—steady, intentional, precise.
Now in his late thirties, Bonny wore his age with quiet confidence. It wasn't the kind of confidence that needed to announce itself with bravado or flash. It was settled. Rooted. The kind of assurance that comes only from years of walking through fire, failing forward, refining skill with grit and patience. He had shaped himself in silence, forged character in the quiet hours where no one was watching. And it showed.
There was something magnetic about him. A kind of presence that made people turn and look twice—not necessarily because of loud charm, but because of how deeply he belonged in his own skin. His face carried the softness of kindness and the strength of conviction. A thick, dark beard—always meticulously groomed—framed his jaw, lending him a touch of rugged elegance. It didn't just add to his appearance; it amplified it, highlighting the sharp cut of his features like a frame around a portrait.
But it was his eyes that most people remembered. Electric blue, vivid in a way that felt almost unreal—eyes that seemed to hold years, oceans, storms. They could be comforting or cutting, depending on what truth they saw. There was depth in them, stories untold, and a rare kind of stillness that made people feel both curious and cautious. You could sense he had seen things, carried things, maybe lost things—and it made him real.
His hair was practical, cropped short not for vanity but function. Bonny wasn't one to waste time on appearances, yet ironically, his simplicity only added to his style. Most days he wore a hat—often vintage, sometimes weathered, always intentional. It gave him a signature look, a flash of personality that hinted at his playful side, at the man beneath the professional polish. It was a small rebellion, a soft reminder that he was more than what he did—that he was still writing his own story, one careful line at a time.
His clothing wasn't just an outfit—it was a narrative. A carefully curated expression of who he was, both to the world and to himself. There was no pretentiousness in it, no attempt to impress. Instead, it was honest, thoughtful, and deeply intentional. Every thread, every fold, every choice spoke quietly of a man who understood the power of subtlety and the value of comfort balanced with poise.
The crisp white shirt he wore, with its sleeves neatly rolled up just below the elbow, revealed more than the sinewy strength of his forearms. It revealed work. Long hours, dedication, and a willingness to engage physically with his craft. The fabric bore faint creases that hinted at movement, at effort, at purpose. It wasn't a fashion statement—it was a statement of effort. Of a man unafraid to get his hands dirty while still holding himself to a standard of neatness and pride in appearance.
Draped over his shoulders was a brown leather jacket, soft with age but strong in structure. It hugged his frame like it belonged there, like it had grown used to his form over years of shared experiences. The scuffs and wear on the leather didn't diminish its beauty—they enhanced it. Each mark was a story, each crease a chapter. It wasn't just outerwear—it was a companion, a symbol of resilience and movement, of facing cold winds and tougher times with a grit that never quite faded.
His tailored black pants added an elegant contrast. Slim but not tight, they followed the natural lines of his legs with quiet precision, suggesting a man who appreciated quality and detail but didn't need to shout about it. The fit was perfect, but not showy—clean seams, subtle tapering. It was the kind of clothing chosen by someone who respected craftsmanship, even in the smallest details.
At his feet were polished black high-ankle boots—firm, dependable, and just as well-worn as the jacket. They weren't for show either. They were built for stability, for movement, for grounding. The kind of boots that could carry someone through rain-soaked streets or long hours on hard flooring without faltering. And somehow, without trying, they gave him presence. Not the loud kind, but the steady, unshakable kind—the kind of presence that made people step aside without quite realizing why.
Together, the pieces didn't just clothe him—they reflected him. They echoed his personality: quiet strength, refined taste, a sense of history, and an effortless command of space. There was no need for jewelry, no flashy logos, no bold colors. His clothes told the story of a man who had come to know himself, who dressed not to impress others but to stay aligned with who he truly was.
Beneath the rugged façade—the weathered leather, the worn boots, the quiet, penetrating stare—there existed something far more intricate than first impressions suggested. It was a kind of refinement, not in the way of polished manners or inherited etiquette, but in the softness with which he moved through the world. It was a refinement that grew not from wealth or status, but from a cultivated inner balance. A quiet dignity. A deep and steady understanding of who he was.
It wasn't the kind of grace that drew gasps at parties or admiration in boardrooms. No. His grace was quieter, almost invisible to the untrained eye. It lived in the curve of his hand when he held a tool—precise, intentional, steady. It lingered in the rhythm of his voice, which never rushed, never rose above necessary, but always managed to command attention. It revealed itself in his small gestures—the way he nodded respectfully at strangers, acknowledged waitstaff with eye contact and sincerity, held the door a second longer than expected just so someone could pass through without hurry.
There was a kind of poetry in his presence, a contradiction that made him all the more magnetic. Raw strength housed within restraint. Masculine edges softened by self-awareness. He could be intimidating, yes—but even the most guarded people found themselves drawn in once they saw past the exterior. It was as if their instincts knew: there was no malice in this man, only depth, only fire tempered with control.
He didn't try to be charismatic. He simply was. His charisma didn't shine—it simmered. It didn't seek the spotlight; it simply existed in a quiet confidence, like a candle that never went out, regardless of wind or darkness. There was something grounding about him, something that told you he wouldn't crumble under pressure. That if the world started to shake, he'd still be standing.
Bonny moved through life with the ease of someone who had stopped pretending. There was no performance in him. He had done the work—internal and external—and it showed. His steps were firm but unhurried, as if the earth itself had grown familiar with his rhythm. He gave off the air of a man who had learned to enjoy the journey instead of constantly chasing the destination.
And he loved his life—not in an idealized, everything-is-perfect way, but in the raw, open-eyed manner of someone who had seen both beauty and brutality and still chose joy. He loved the mess, the unpredictability, the little victories, and the hard-earned lessons. He had embraced all of it—the good, the jagged, the exhausting—and molded it into something meaningful.
That love showed in the way he carried himself. There was no desperation in his posture, no hunger for validation in his eyes. Just the assuredness of a man who had carved out a place for himself in the world and planted his flag with quiet pride. He had not only found his calling—he had answered it fully, completely, without regret. And that kind of devotion… was unmistakably rare.
The long, solitary motorcycle rides were more than just a means of travel for Bonny—they were his sanctuary. A ritual. A personal pilgrimage into the vast silence of the wastelands, where the clutter of life could finally fall away. Out there, where the world thinned and the noise of civilization faded into the horizon, he found something sacred.
The low, consistent rumble of the engine beneath him was like a heartbeat, steady and grounding. The wind didn't just kiss his face—it tore across it, wild and unfiltered, a force that stripped him bare of expectation and pressure. He welcomed it. The sting. The sting reminded him he was alive, still moving, still choosing his own path.
Stretching out in front of him was the road—sometimes smooth, sometimes cracked and unpredictable—but always open. Always promising escape. The endless ribbon of asphalt or dirt had no questions, no demands, just direction. And Bonny, in his leather jacket, shoulders relaxed, eyes forward behind tinted goggles, rode into it like a man seeking both absolution and understanding.
It wasn't just about escape. It was about cleansing. The road gave him the silence his mind craved after days of navigating morally gray territory—hunting, tracking, and sometimes killing rogue witches whose actions blurred the lines between justice and survival. The world rarely saw the toll it took on a man's soul, but Bonny felt it. Every. Single. Time.
When the road ended—sometimes near the edge of a ghost town, other times beside a forgotten field where grass grew wild and untamed—he would find a place to rest. Not a hotel. Not a diner. Just a patch of space where he could be alone. He'd kill the engine and let the quiet take over, then pull out a large, amber glass bottle of beer from his saddlebag and drink slowly. Not to forget, but to feel.
Each sip carried the weight of miles behind him and the peace of having no destination ahead. It was a simple act, yet sacred. A pause in the storm. A moment where he wasn't a hunter, a protector, or a threat. He was just a man. Bone and blood and breath.
This was the part of his life few ever saw. The part that kept him balanced. That made the man behind the reputation real. The wild, untamed freedom of the open road wasn't just something he admired—it lived in him. It whispered to the part of his soul that refused to be chained by routine or broken by regret.
He chose this life. Not because it was easy, but because it was his. And in the lonely stretches of sky and sand, in the fierce howl of wind against metal, Bonny found the kind of truth most people spend their whole lives avoiding.
Out there, he was free. And for him, that freedom was worth everything.
However, a subtle, yet persistent flicker of annoyance had begun to disrupt the smooth, predictable rhythm of Bonny's carefully curated life.
It wasn't loud, this feeling. It crept in like a faint draft under a closed door—barely noticeable at first, but impossible to ignore once felt. Like a discordant note in a melody he'd grown used to humming, it lingered just beneath the surface, threading its way through the quiet spaces in his thoughts.
He had just completed a particularly grueling mission—one that had pushed both his physical endurance and his mental resolve to their limits. The job had taken him to the far reaches of T-42B, one of the hundred worlds known for its brutal landscapes and unforgiving terrain. A wasteland by all accounts. Lifeless, dry, endlessly gray.
There, he'd tracked and eliminated a small but dangerous group of dark mages who had gone rogue, twisting their power into tools of chaos and destruction. It was a hunt that demanded precision, patience, and a dangerous level of emotional detachment. He'd executed the mission with the same cold efficiency he was known for. And when it was done, he felt the familiar wave of quiet satisfaction—brief, controlled, and never quite celebratory. That was his way.
But that small moment of peace was abruptly fractured by the sharp buzz of a high-priority message crackling through his communicator. It wasn't a request—it was a summon. A curt command to return to Earth, specifically Springville Valley, and to do so as fast as possible.
There was no explanation. No context. Just urgency.
And it grated on him.
The timing, the tone, the lack of detail—it all rubbed against his skin like sand beneath armor. There was a rhythm to how he moved through the world, a deliberate pace he maintained to stay grounded. This—this intrusion—threatened that rhythm.
The easy solution would've been to use one of the teleportation gates. Instant travel. Efficient. Commonplace. But the very thought turned his stomach.
Bonny had a deep-rooted aversion to those portals, be they magical or technological. It wasn't just a preference—it bordered on something primal, almost sacred. To him, teleportation wasn't convenience. It was violation. A rip in the natural fabric of movement. A theft of the journey, the in-between spaces where reflection and awareness lived.
He wasn't afraid of speed. No—he flew faster than most men dared dream. But he respected the process. The progression of moments. The sensation of his space-cycle vibrating beneath him, the wind against his face as he sliced through atmosphere and stars, the gentle shift of gears as he leaned into turns across terrain.
All of it mattered.
To arrive somewhere without that journey felt like waking from a dream you didn't earn. It left him unsettled, hollowed in places that needed the friction of time to stay real.
So, when the order came, Bonny didn't rush to a gate. He didn't ask questions, either.
He simply mounted his machine, fired up the engine, and turned toward Earth. But beneath his calm exterior, the irritation brewed—low and simmering.
Something about this call felt off. And Bonny had learned, after all these years, to trust the way his instincts stirred long before his mind had words to catch up.
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"Those damned gates," he growled, his voice low and gravelly, the words sliding from his lips like a bitter taste he couldn't spit out fast enough.
It wasn't just a complaint—it was a condemnation. The kind that came from a place of deeply held belief, not fleeting discomfort. The very idea of stepping through one of those shimmering portals—of being flung across space and time in the blink of an eye—sent an involuntary shudder rolling down his spine.
To most, they were marvels—miracles of progress and convenience. But to Bonny, they were an offense.
A violation.
A sterile imitation of what it meant to move, to feel, to live.
He craved the tangible. The ache in his shoulders after hours on the road. The sting of cold air against his face. The comforting roar of his motorcycle engine beneath him, steady and alive like a heartbeat. He lived for the way landscapes unraveled slowly before his eyes—the way dusk turned to night, and night surrendered to dawn, all while he was in motion.
These weren't just sensations. They were sacred to him. Markers of existence.
Where others saw efficiency, he saw emptiness. A cheat. A denial of the in-between. He would rather spend days—hell, even weeks—pushing through punishing terrain, than be reduced to a blinking traveler stripped of all journey, all grit, all struggle. The gates robbed life of its edges. And Bonny? He lived for those edges.
So when he refused them, it wasn't stubbornness. It was loyalty. To something older. Something real.
As he neared Springville Valley, the shift in atmosphere was immediate, jarring.
The wilderness behind him faded into memory as the city emerged—an unnatural sculpture of chrome and glass stretching into the horizon. The skyline pierced the clouds with jagged precision, its towering buildings gleaming under the afternoon light like polished fangs.
Beneath them, life surged in restless chaos.
The streets were a woven net of movement and noise. Cars blared. Crowds surged. Screens flickered. Lights flashed. Everything seemed to shout, to demand attention, to press in on all sides.
Bonny's hands tightened on the handlebars as the sound swelled in his ears—a rising hum that felt more like an invasion than a welcome.
This wasn't home.
It never had been.
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The city, with all its order and structure, suffocated him. The endless rules, the towering buildings that blocked the sky, the narrow alleyways that left no room to breathe—it all felt too close. Too artificial.
He was a creature carved by wilderness. A soul shaped by silence and space. By nights under stars, not neon. By wind and firelight and the quiet comfort of solitude—not this mechanical, overcrowded machine of a place.
What comfort he found came not from luxury or routine, but from things the city rarely offered—beautiful women with wild eyes and sharp minds, a cold drink in a quiet corner, the kind of conversations that didn't need to be filtered or faked. He lived without apologies, without bending to the cold rigidity of expectation.
And now, riding into Springville Valley, with its choking density and its suffocating presence, Bonny felt his spirit recoil.
The city wasn't just loud. It was a cage.
And no matter how polished its walls were, a cage was still a cage.
Bonny brought his motorcycle to a steady halt at the very edge of the city, the massive silhouette of Springville Valley looming ahead like a steel-and-glass leviathan. He veered off the main road and onto a forgotten, gravel-strewn patch of land just outside the reach of the city's surveillance and noise—a place where the air still tasted faintly of dust and wild grass rather than exhaust fumes and cold metal.
The low purr of the engine faded into silence as he killed the ignition. He swung one leg over and dismounted in a practiced, almost ritualistic motion, like someone who had done it too many times to count. His boots crunched lightly against the dirt as he landed, his weight steady, movements quiet but purposeful.
With a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure no one was watching, he reached beneath the flap of his leather jacket and adjusted the weapon strapped to his side, tucking it deeper into its concealed holster. Then he zipped up his pants, methodical in the way he did everything—nothing wasted, nothing rushed.
From the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes—edges soft from use, the top slightly torn from repeated openings. His fingers moved automatically, retrieving one and placing it between his lips like a well-worn ritual. A silver lighter followed, scratched and dented from years of wear, but still dependable. He flicked it open with a practiced snap.
The tiny flame danced briefly before catching the end of the cigarette. He inhaled slowly, the smoke curling into his lungs, bitter and hot, grounding him in its familiarity.
He stood there for a moment, still and silent, the city glinting ahead like a false promise.
Then he exhaled.
A thick plume of gray smoke drifted upward and outward, briefly clouding the sight of the skyscrapers and neon-lit streets beyond. For just a second, it felt like he was pushing back—blurring the line between who he was and what the city wanted to make of him. That single act, simple as it was, felt like defiance. A man refusing to be swallowed whole.
"You know those things could kill you, right?"
The voice came from behind him—unexpected, but not entirely unfamiliar.
It sliced through the stillness like a blade wrapped in velvet.
Bonny stiffened. The solitude of his smoke break was instantly fractured, the quiet he had claimed interrupted without warning.
He didn't turn around right away. He took another drag, slower this time, letting the smoke sit in his lungs before releasing it in a soft sigh.
The voice was laced with playful concern, threaded with a note of amusement that rubbed against his already frayed edges.
He recognized it.
And that only made it worse.
Because familiarity had a way of making you drop your guard—and Bonny didn't like dropping his guard for anyone.
Not here. Not now.
Bonny pivoted on his heel, the movement smooth and measured, like a man who'd spent years perfecting how not to waste a single step. His boots shifted against the gravel as he turned to face the approaching figure, whose outline was now growing clearer with each passing second.
The fading sunlight carved a silhouette out of the man's frame—tall, lean, and moving with the casual confidence of someone who knew he was expected, even if he hadn't arrived on time. Joe.
Bonny's eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in quiet recognition.
"If those damned witches haven't managed to send me to an early grave yet," he muttered, cigarette perched loosely between his fingers, "then it'd take something truly extraordinary to get the job done."
His voice was dry, cracked with exhaustion and edged with sardonic amusement. He raised the cigarette to his lips, drawing deeply. The ember flared with life, then dimmed, the smoke trailing upward in a lazy spiral—defiant, untamed, just like him.
Joe came to a stop a few feet away, his gaze resting on Bonny's weathered face. The slight lift of his brow suggested he wasn't entirely impressed.
"Well," Joe began, his tone lighter than the worry etched into the corners of his eyes, "I sincerely hope I don't end up visiting you in some sterile hospital ward, watching you waste away like a wilting flower on a cracked windowsill."
There was humor in his voice, sure—but underneath it lay something heavier. A quiet tremor of concern.
Joe had seen too many comrades push themselves too far. He knew what happened to men like Bonny—men who ran headfirst into danger not because they wanted to die, but because they didn't know what to do with peace.
Bonny gave a short, gruff laugh—one that barely reached his eyes. He shook his head slightly, then flicked a bit of ash from the cigarette, watching the tiny ember vanish into the dry earth.
"Keep your anxieties to yourself, Joe," he said, not harshly, but with the weight of someone who didn't want to carry other people's emotions along with his own.
He let the silence breathe for a beat, then added with a glance at the sky, "And besides… you're late."
There was a faint edge to his words now—playful, but unmistakable.
"By my estimation, quite late."
The cigarette hung between his fingers like punctuation, glowing softly in the waning light.
"I made a brief, unscheduled detour to the coffee shop," Joe explained, his voice smooth with an undercurrent of apology. There was a slight lift to his brow, like he was testing how far he could stretch the excuse without being chewed out. "Figured you'd appreciate a little caffeine boost before we dive into whatever unpleasantness is waiting for us."
He held up a carrier tray with two paper cups, steam curling into the cool evening air like lazy ghosts. "Black, or the more pretentious cappuccino?"
"Black," Bonny replied without hesitation. His voice carried the sharp decisiveness of a man who didn't believe in sugarcoating anything—not his words, not his coffee, not his life.
He stepped forward, his gait steady and unhurried, and took the cup from Joe. The heat seeped through the thin cardboard, spreading across his rough palms like a quiet balm.
The scent hit him immediately—bold, earthy, bitter. It filled his lungs, grounding him. For a moment, just a moment, it felt like a piece of normalcy in a world that hadn't offered him much of it lately.
"Thanks," he muttered, more out of habit than gratitude, though something in his eyes—just a flicker—suggested he meant it.
They stood there for a second, two men on the edge of a city neither of them particularly liked, sharing silence and coffee under a dimming sky.
Bonny took a slow sip, letting the sharp, slightly acidic taste roll across his tongue. It was strong. No frills. Just the way he liked it. It gave him something to focus on, something real, while everything else still hovered in that strange, tense unknown.
"So," he began, his tone deceptively casual, though his gaze remained locked and searching, "what's the urgency, Joe?"
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Notes: T-42B's tourism board would like to clarify that while its landscapes are "unforgiving," they offer a unique and "character-building" vacation experience for the discerning traveler. Inquire within for our "Survive the Week" package.