Second Chance (not sure if this is sfw or not, yet… we’ll see how it develops)

This is just the first two chapters of the story I'm attempting to write.  Any tips on character development, dialogue, etc will be greatly appreciated.  This story does not feature ginormous muscles…yet…and it does start sort of slowly.  It is also not really intended as a purely masturbatory exercise.  I'm actually trying to create a story with some real characters and some real motivations.  Let me know how I'm doing…

Chapter One

    Dicey stared at herself in the full-length mirror, cataloguing imperfections.  She was, she had to admit, not bad.  A little too tall, she thought, and big, although not ludicrously large.  She was fortunate, she thought, that her years of field hockey and soccer, and later cheerleading and dance, had helped her to keep most of the weight off.  Even so, she could see the results of this last year of lowered activity- her legs, which had always been her best feature, she thought, were starting to look slightly puffy, as was her stomach.  Her chest was a good size, at least, not too big, like some porn star, but not as small as it had been when she started college.
    She remembered those days, five years ago.  She had been nearly as tall as she was now, but wiry and thin, hard from hours of training.  She was the star of her school’s soccer team, fast, agile, and powerful, but the tradeoff had been that she spent so much time training that she was flat as a board.  With her very pale skin and her ash-blonde hair dyed black, Dicey had looked like one of the walking dead.  Despite that, she had a fairly close group of friends- mostly band and theater geeks, for some reason, and had gone to the prom with a boy- Brian?- who was a good three inches shorter than her.
    She noticed that her freckles were still a little too prominent, and applied some concealer to hide the smattering along her nose and the tops of her cheekbones.  A little mascara and eye-liner- not as much as in her dead-girl days, just enough to help accent her extremely long eyelashes, and some bright red lipstick, not too glossy.
    She turned her attention to her upper body.  Her skin was very pale, not quite albino, but it only took her about ten minutes in the sun to turn her into something very pink instead of white.  The luck of having French and Irish ancestors, she thought ruefully.  She noted in passing that she hadn’t entirely lost the mass that she had had in high school- her shoulders were still surprisingly thick, and her back was pretty solid, as well, although her height made it look pretty average.  She had the tiniest roll of babyfat on her tummy.  Gonna have to diet that off, she thought, wrinkling her nose.
    There was a knock on the door.  “Hey Chance,” called Vinnie, “time to go- you ready yet?”  Vinnie was an okay guy- great voice, amazing hands, but just a little bit diffident.  She wished she could convince him to share some of his compositions with the rest of the band…
    “Yeah, Vin, just a second.”  He always called her Chance, his little joke about her name.  She grabbed some tight black jeans, a lacy black bra, and a loose fitting tank top.  Shrugging into her clothes, she grabbed a biker jacket and her bass and banged out the door.
    “You going on stage barefoot?” Vinnie asked with a smile.
    “Ah, crap.  Just a second, okay?  Is the crowd eating itself, yet?”
“Nah, but it could start at any second.  Nicole and Drifter are nearly done with their solo stuff, and the crowd’s loving it, but it’s pretty clear they wanna hear the whole band out there.”
    “Cool.  Just lemme pull my shoes on.”  Dicey didn’t wear boots, generally.  At 5’10”, she was already as tall as every man in the band, and she didn’t want to come off as some giant freak.
    As she finished pulling on her shoes, she heard the opening drum riff to the very first song she’d written, a rock-and-roll sendup of Mozart’s Concerto No. 24 in C-Minor with a couple twists of her own thrown in, and lyrics added by Vinnie.  They’d called it Spritz, and she doubted very much if anyone would recognize the classical inspirations given how pared down it was, especially not with her driving bass and Vinnie wailing away in German over the top of it.  She grinned as she dashed out to her place on stage.
    After Spritz, they segued through several other songs- their obligatory ballad (she and Drifter had written the lyrics for that one, reminiscent of Chaucer’s Knight’s Tale, and she’d put together a lush keyboard part and very spare bass, guitar, and drum lines), then back into a nine-song set of hard rockers that demonstrated Nicole’s virtuosity on the lead guitar.  A brief intermission, during which everyone got something to drink, than they were back at it.  The whole show seemed to last an eyeblink to Dicey- there were a couple of sour notes, and Drifter nearly lost the beat, once, but it was a good show, and it was strong, and it was over in just over two-and-a-half hours that seemed to just fly past.  The crowd loved it.

    Dicey was still buzzing when Vinnie stepped up behind her after the show.
    “Hey Chance, I think we might be on to something, here,” he grinned.
    “No doubt- Têtes Rouleront finally put itself on the map!”
    She headed back to the stage to help the roadies pack up the gear.  They were still a new band, so they only had a couple of loyal roadies, and the band still did most of the heavy lifting.  Vinnie went over to the club owner to talk about business things, glancing back just in time to see Dicey and Drifter manhandling a huge amp off of the stand it was resting on.
    “Hey, Unca Vinnie- good show,” drawled a honey-laced alto voice behind him.
    Vinnie turned to regard a small girl, honey-blond hair and pale blue eyes.  She was there with a group of friends, most of them older than her, Vinnie thought.  “Hey, Dasia, you came all the way up here to see your sister play?  Are your parents gonna be okay with that?”
    Dasia made a face.  “Like Moms would even notice I was gone.  Anyway, Dad said it was okay, since it’s a Saturday, as long as Ron has me home by midnight.”
    “Guess you’d better hurry, then.  It’s nearly eleven, now.”
    “Yeah.  Let me just say hi to Dicey, ‘kay?”
    “I’m not stopping you,” Vinnie smiled.  He quite liked Dasia.  She was nearly a polar opposite to Dicey- small where Dicey was large, quiet where Dicey tended to be just a bit on the loud, aggressive side.  Despite that, it was pretty clear that they genuinely liked each other.  Maybe it was the eight years of age difference that made it possible, he thought.  He turned back to his conversation with the club owner.

    When Vinnie turned back to the stage, he saw that the area was mostly clear- an impressively fast tear-down, he thought- and then he noticed that Drifter was on his back and Dicey and Dasia were crowded around him.  What the hell?! he thought.
    “Geez, guys, what happened?”
    “I think I pulled something in my back,” Drifter groaned.
    “He tripped and dropped his end of the amp,” Dasia noted clinically.  “It’s a good thing Dicey had ahold, otherwise…smush!”
    “Yeah.  Good thing.”  Vinnie’s mind boggled.  That amp weighed a good hundred fifty pounds.  He looked around, expecting to see pieces of the amp from where it crashed to the ground.  “Where is it now?”
    “I put it in the van, chief,” said Dicey.
    “Oh.  Good.”
    “Hey, Dicey, I gotta get your sister home before midnight, or your Dad’s gonna murder me and hide my body in the back forty.”  Ron was glancing at his watch, clearly anxious about the time.  It was, after all, a pretty fair stretch from Detroit to Toledo…
    “Oh God, right.  You drive safe, okay?  Call me when you get home!”
    Dasia rolled her eyes.

Chapter Two

    Dasia headed into the brightly lit QuikMart while Ron stayed outside to put gas in the car.  She shivered a little, as the spring night air was surprisingly cool, and she hadn’t worn a heavy jacket.  She hadn’t really thought she’d need one this late in April.  As she got inside, she went over to the little coffee bar- they had one of those crappucino machines that also made surprisingly good hot cocoa- and got herself a small cup.  She was already starting to feel the bruises that she would have tomorrow and probably all of next week.  Note to self, she thought wryly, girls who weigh in at a hundred pounds soaking wet and in combat boots shouldn’t slamdance!
    She made her way over to the tiny drug section and picked up a couple packs of ibuprofen and acetaminophen.  It sure seemed like Ron was taking a long time with the car.  She glanced back out the window and dropped her coffee.  Five men in leather jackets were surrounding Ron and, as she watched, one of them gut punched him and dragged him away from the car.  She fumbled in her purse for her phone.
    Nine-one-one.  Call nine-one-one.
    “Hello, what is your emergency?” asked the deep male voice on the other end.  That was as much of the conversation as Dasia remembered, later.  Then she called Dicey.

    Dicey snapped her phone shut and looked at Vinnie.  “Dasia’s in trouble.  She’s not far, but she sounds like she’s on the verge of tears.  Y’all mind if I bug out early?”
    Vinnie could read the concern on Dicey’s face.  She was playing it pretty cool, but he’d known her for years, and he could tell she was more than a little worried about her baby sister.  “Go ahead.  Hey- you got wheels?”
    “Thought I’d grab a cab.”
    “Better idea.  Take my bike.”  He tossed her his keys, which she caught.
    “Thanks.  I gotta run.”
    “Call me when everything’s okay, or if you need anything.  I’m gonna catch a ride home with Drifter.”

    Dicey was so glad that she didn’t have long hair, anymore.  She was driving close to eighty down 275, praying that she didn’t get pulled over by some Sherriff’s department dick.  The fact that she wasn’t wearing a helmet and that she was driving way too fast would probably not be appreciated by the local constabulary.  Of course, if she got creamed by some somnolent trucker, the irony would be just too great to be borne.  She checked her speed and backed off a little bit, watching for the exit.
    Dasia hadn’t been terribly coherent when she spoke to her.  She actually had to get directions from the young man behind the counter of the little convenience store, and he’d also provided most of the details.  The way he sounded so calm and in possession of himself actually frightened Dicey a bit.  It was as if he was used to this sort of thing, as if it happened all too frequently.  She pulled into the lot of the QuikMart, saw Dasia standing in the windows, staring out.  Where the hell are the cops? she wondered.  Pulling the bike up to the store, she dismounted and ran inside, hugging Dasia.
    “God, honey, are you okay?”
    Dasia seemed to have calmed down, some, but she didn’t seem quite normal, even now.  “I’m okay.  Um, I called the cops, but I haven’t seen them yet.”  Dicey noticed the young black man behind the counter shaking his head.
    “What?” she challenged.
    “You ain’t gonna see ‘em.  Not for awhile, leastways.  Cops don’t like coming into this part of town.  Too dangerous.  Too dangerous for little white girls, too.”
    The smart thing to do, she told herself, would be to sit tight and just wait for the cops.  She looked over at Dasia, who was standing wide-eyed, arms folded in like she was trying to keep warm.  “Dasia.  Don’t worry, we’ll find him.  Come on, we can go outside and take a look.”
    “If you gonna do that, I’m comin’ with,” said the clerk.  He reached under the counter and brought up an aluminum baseball bat.  “It ain’t much, but it’ll do.”
    “Okay.  My name’s Dicey, by the way, and my sister is Dasia.”
    “Deamonte.”
    Stepping outside, they went over to Ron’s car.  The doors were locked, and the gas pump was still in the tank.  Looking around, Dicey noticed something shiny on the ground and picked it up.  It was a small disc, obviously part of a necklace or a bracelet, purely decorational.  It was not something Ron would wear.  She showed it to Deamonte.
    “That’s bad news, man.  Means your boy been taken by the Motorheads.  They shank him and leave him for dead, probably.”
    “Where would they take him?  Why would they take him?”
    “Probably took him over to Moe’s, warehouse not too far from here.  Don’t know no why, though.  That ain’t normal.”
    “Okay- so we’re going to Moe’s, then, right?” said Dasia.
    “Not a good idea, little girl.  You just get yourself killed, all that happen.  Your boy probably already dead.”
    Dicey stared at him for a second.  “Tell me how to get there.  Maybe he’s not dead yet.  Maybe we can get him out of this.”
    Deamonte looked doubtful, but gave them the directions.  “I’m gonna stay here, wait for the cops.  I send ‘em your way when they get here, though.”
    “Thanks,” Dicey said, and meant it.

    Neither Dicey nor Dasia said a word as they hiked the quarter mile to Moe’s.  This is so stupid, Dicey thought.  We are gonna get so killed.
    She didn’t quite know what it was driving her on.  She hated seeing Dasia in pain was part of it, and she had been raised to be assertive and helpful whenever she could.  Still, she didn’t feel nearly as frightened as she thought she ought to.  Mostly, she was just angry.
    Adrenaline, she told herself.  Calm down.  You won’t do anyone any good if your judgment is messed up.  She could almost hear Phil’s soft, authoritative voice in her head.
    God, Philémon ought to be doing this, not me.  Phil was their older brother, a six time national level champion in karate and a 3rd degree black belt.  Of course, Phil was also no dummy, and he probably wouldn’t rush headlong into such long odds, either.  Dicey had no martial training to speak of- Dasia actually had more, because Phil loved teaching her basic escapes and avoidance techniques- but she was, at least, naturally athletic.  She really hoped this wasn’t going to turn into a fight.
    There was light coming from under the plain steel door that let customers into Moe’s, and the door was ever so slightly ajar.
    “Stay here,” Dicey breathed at her sister, and quickly padded up to the door.  Looking back, she saw that Dasia had completely ignored her and was doggedly on her heels.  Looking through the crack, she could see Ron on the floor, struggling weakly to sit up.  His face was badly purpled, from what she could see, and he was probably hurt in other places as well.  It looked like someone else was in there with him, but Dicey couldn’t make out who.  From where the shadows fell on the floor, though, it might only be one guy.
    “Okay.  One guy, I think.  I think we can take him in a rush,” she whispered.  Dasia’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded.  “On the count of three, you pull open the door and I’ll tackle him.  Try to get something heavy to hit him with, okay?”  Dasia nodded again.
    “One…
    “Two…
    “Three!”
    Dasia yanked the door wide open and Dicey sprinted across the distance, eyes quickly finding their target as she plowed into the lone man standing over Ron.  Both of them went down in a heap, but not before the guard yelled out.
    Dicey struggled to keep him from rolling her over, flailing her arms and legs and catching the heavier man several hard blows across the face and ribs.  With one shot, she heard something crack, but she wasn’t sure if it was in her or him.  Just then, Dasia stepped inside, followed by four more very large men.  One of them shoved her hard on the shoulder and she collapsed into Ron.
    “Shit,” one grunted.  “Yo, girl.  Time to stand up and take your medicine.”
Dicey warily got to her feet.
    “Hey, Joey.  You okay?”
    “Think the bitch broge by dose,” the guard muttered.
    “Fair trade.  Whyn’t you bust one of them in the face, then?”
    Dicey had control of her breathing now and was looking at the men who had just come in.  The talker was a big man, probably a solid two-fifty, and held himself with an easy arrogance that suggested that he was used to violence in many forms, and comfortable with it.  He was scarred and tattooed, and he wore a small pistol at his side like someone who knew how to use it.  Dicey knew a little about guns from having practiced with them a bit in college, and this guy definitely scared her.  The others weren’t any better.  None of the rest of them were actually packing heat that she could see, but they were all much bigger than her, and they obviously all belonged to the school of thought that suggested that you could only be a man if you had some sort of implement at hand to use as a weapon.  Two of them had knives, and the third had some sort of long, weighted chain.
    Joey stepped up, spat in Dicey’s face, then backhanded Dasia across the jaw.  The crack echoed as Dasia spun a full hundred eighty degrees before falling back down on the ground.  Things seemed to go very still, all of a sudden, and Dicey had to piece together what happened next from her own fragmented memories and what Dasia and Ron were able to tell her.

    It was, in a word, inhuman.  Even as Dasia was falling to the floor, Dicey was reaching for Joey.  She grabbed him and jacked him up with just her left arm, suspending his full weight there for an instant before hurling him across the warehouse.  Ron couldn’t see where he landed, but the arc suggested that it must’ve been high up.  He felt his ribs shift from where he had been kicked several times as he tried to turn and see what was happening.

    She moved so fast.  Cliff drew his gun and fired in one smooth motion, but she was so fast, he was almost certain he missed her.  Her right hand batted his gun arm across his body and down- it felt like she had hit him with a baseball bat- and her left jammed into the side of his face and lifted.  He felt his jaw separate from the blow, felt his feet actually leave the ground before he crashed back down and slid for several feet.  Then he saw it.  She was bigger than he first thought.  Sure, she was tall, but her shoulders were unbelievably thick, like a pro linebacker.  Her jacket creaked as she worked her way down the line.
    Rick and Steve were both experienced knife-fighters, and they moved to coordinate their attacks, coming in from her flanks.  She turned towards Rick, exposing her back to Steve, but Steve never got his attack in.  The little waif-like girl was back on her feet, and she had grabbed a long piece of wood and smacked Steve across the back with it, staggering him.  Meanwhile, the big girl dodged just outside Rick’s slash, then danced in with a fast flurry of hard punches into his sternum.  The punches were sloppy, but so fast they blurred, and the explosion of Rick’s ribs sounded like machine gun fire.  Steve was turning to face the new threat as Lee whipped his manriki around in a tight hard circle at the bigger girl’s face.
    She caught it.  With her left hand, she reached out and caught the ball out of the air, stopping it cold.  Lee tried to pull it back, and she came with it, driving her fist like a pile-driver into his face.  All the tension in Lee’s body disappeared.  It was as if she had just reached over and turned off a light.  Lee was down and out, and he wasn’t getting up again for a good long while.  Before he could actually hit the floor, though, she had grabbed his shirt and jeans and lifted him off the ground as she spun back to Steve.  That was when they heard the sirens.