Maysie's Galaxy ONC 2023

Ferrari

"Mobo Ethan Abimbola?"

Their commander has taken an old Ferrari 308GT4 off base to drive to Paris from Gibraltar. Yes, it was a sports car from Italy, but its other name exposed why people forgot its lineage: DINO. It was primitive before it was designed with a boxy shape that plagued many muscle cars of the 70s and 80s.

But Ethan wanted a car that could run circles around other junk on the road in case of attack, but wouldn't cause trash to hunt them just because the car looked good enough to steal or worse, lead a trail of Paparazzi to the boss' door just to see his Yoruban Maniac offering up yet another attractive young woman to him on a silver platter. There were enough misconstrued lies floating around that discretion was called for.

Which is why he hated the civilian-run checkpoints. There had been over 7 on their way in, and the most bothersome was close to where the Bay of Biscay once had been. Apparently, it was a weak point in the road infrastructure and prone to bomb threats, so they checked you and your car over. They hadn't liked her guns, but her temporary paperwork--once verified--had sealed that worker's lips real quick.

This time, the delay didn't make any sense. The younger man's voice turned nasally when he raised it as if Ethan couldn't hear him.  "Mobo Ethan Abimbola?"

Ethan rolled his eyes "Yes, civilian?"

"Your traveling partner doesn't have sufficient identification."

"A betrothal contract needs no identity."

"Uh, sir, to you..."

"Read who is on the other end of that, civilian!"

The man checked the paperwork and blanched before taking on a more sour look. He leaned down further to catch a look at Maysie--his breath caught.

In one day, she went from rabbit-wearing barbarian to a typical sophisticated young woman of Fallen Europe (as the resulting nation was cynically called). Thankfully they allowed her to wear sandals instead of heels. She didn't think she'd ever master those.

Brittany had done her makeup before allowing them to go off-base. Anyone with the balls to speak to her told her that she went from pretty to stunning overnight.

Looking in a mirror, Maysie thought she looked like a cross between a raccoon and a mime. She disliked makeup on first use, which made her grimace, thinking back to earlier years when she and Alder discussed concepts such as beatification and how much he hated that nonsense, as it often was used to hide ethnicity in his modern society. Change the shape of your eyes or nose with a stroke of a pen, and lie about who you are.

She never understood that aversion back then, but now that her face wasn't hers, she got it.

And worse, she saw it in a full-length mirror and was terrified that this was the face she'd show to Talon if she ever saw him again.

If she saw him.

The young man holding them up from driving into the capital decided to become more of a menace than a servant of the law.  "Did you let that wretched child know that she was marrying an old man?"

Maysie's eyebrows raised. No one had told her much of anything about where they were bringing her to or how, but before she could ask, Ethan barked out. "I am not voiding out the Warlord's contract so you can get your slimy paws on the girl, you half-baked Crested Tit!"

So, whatever this "paperwork" was, it kept people from grabbing her off the streets--that much she understood from Ethan's stance. And hell, she'd trust the devil she knew, who hadn't even once looked at her the way that idiot outside was. Maysie looked at the purse where she carried 3 of her guns. "Am I allowed to defend myself, Ethan?"

"Wait until you are certified before you shoot anyone, and it better be in self-defense," Ethan explained the situation calmly to Maysie, the opposite of his tone for the man holding their papers. "If he doesn't clear us in the next minute, I've got the legal right to publicly execute him, which ain't going to involve a bullet."

The formerly snooty man choked on his own spit--half sounding like the bird he was named. He clearly believed the warning as he had their papers back to them nearly immediately.

This was the last official stop on the N118 towards the Musée Jacquemart-André, where Ethan's "boss" lived in the "private suites"  of this national museum of a palace. Ethan was in a rush to get there, be done with this part of his task--not the young woman's fault, just until all the details were ironed out, men with stronger constitutions than that pencil pusher would butt their noses into this for their political gain.

"So, when do I get told what's going on?"

"Boss likes explaining it himself, and there are listening devices that can pick up what you say in moving vehicles, now. It's best to be silent until we get to our destination, alright miss?

Maysie shrugged and leaned back against her headrest, so she could watch the Parisian world fly by.  Much of it still looked like it did in the few pictures she found of the city, but she couldn't tell what had changed and what had always been, just not in her books. She had a feeling that newer buildings were deliberately blended into the ancient city, to not stick out. It at least was beautiful, if exotic for a woman who wasn't used to having enough atmosphere for a blue sky. The homes around her weren't lived-in buildings like this, but dead and dying.

She didn't think she'd ever get used to the changes in her world, just looking out from a vehicle was an oddity that made her walking everywhere as a child feel worlds apart.