A Little More Conversation

Ryker suspects something is awry when a group of humans approach him after his race.

He looks up from his routine maintenance as a pair of footsteps came to a stop on the well-trod dirt track. He prefers to work himself instead of having his pit crew do it for him, enjoying the feel of machinery beneath his hands, having control over his bike and how it functioned. He scrutinizes the two other racers, glancing between their grinning faces and their rocking hands and shifting feet- anticipation.

“I don’t need any help,” he grunts, ducking back down to work. One of them laughs, a racer a few years his senior.

“Not here to offer you help,” he chuckles, drumming his fingers on the helmet tucked under his arm. Ryker offers them his attention again, wiping grease and grime from his fingers on a ragged cloth.

He probably wouldn’t get much work done.

They continue to stare at him expectantly and he sighs. “What is it, then?” he asks, tossing the worn rag to the side. They shift, giddy, one of them- a younger racer, not much fresher than him- elbows his companion in the side.

“We got you a little somethin’,” one says, eyes alight with mirth. “It’s your tenth win, right? We have a tradition for new racers who keep up their streak.”

Ryker tilts his head in curiosity. A gift? The camaraderie offered so freely by the professional racers never fails to be jarring, even if it holds the best of intentions. Cautious of some sort of practical joke, Ryker stands and slips his gloves back onto his hands.

“What is it, then?” he sighs, glancing mournfully back at his half-finished work. Oh well, his crew can take care of it.

The other racers almost leap in their excitement and each take a firm grip on his arms. He stiffens in protest, but they’re already hauling him away.

“We ordered special for you,” the younger racer says, ruffling the back of his head as if he had hair to muss. “I got mine a few months ago- lemme say, it was swell. Walked bowlegged for a day after. But you’re lucky, you got the special one- since you’re an omnic and all. We wanna welcome you.”

“Thank you, but I don’t follow.”

The senior racer laughs. “I knew it would take you a while to catch on. Good, it’ll be a surprise.”

They walk him out of the stadium, flashing grins and waves at any fans who spot them. They keep their brisk pace, hurrying him across the street to the lavish hotel he sleeps in.

“Now,” the older racer says, guiding him through the plush lobby, “don’t be nervous, first of all, they won’t bite- well, not unless you ask them to. No judgment here though.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He huffs out a laugh and pats his arm, guiding him into an elevator. “I know. You’ll get the hang of it- you have a whole night, after all.” The younger racer presses the button for the top floor. Ryker stares at him, perplexed, possibly more lost than he was originally.

“Are you not going to tell me what it is?” he sighs, already resigned to his fate. There’s no harm to it, he supposes. They seem genuine enough, if a little cryptic and deaf to his confusion. Hopefully it’s nothing outlandish.

The doors open and they lead him down the hallway, towards his room, but Ryker begins to suspect something odd when he sees an unfamiliar omnic stood with his arms folded in front of the door to his hotel room like some sort of bouncer. Ryker freezes in place, looks between his two escorts, then the omnic, then around the deserted hallway for some sort of answer. None comes, and he’s left far more confused than before, if possible.

“This is him, then?” the omnic asks, angling his head down to stare into Ryker’s visor.

“Yep,” the senior racer answers for him, throwing one arm around his shoulders. The motion nearly topples him. The larger omnic spots it, but doesn’t relax his stern posture. He lets out a clipped huff, a dismissive and mechanical noise, and raps his knuckles three times against Ryker’s door.

“Client’s here. You ready?” he calls.

“As always, Krueger,” a voice answers. Ryker starts in surprise at the unfamiliar voice echoing from his room. Client? He glances between the three in front of him.

It starts to dawn on him.

“Wait. I-”

The larger omnic- Krueger- has already opened the door. “Nothing funny,” he growls, shadowing over Ryker, who shrinks back on reflex. “A word from Siren and I’ll toss you out.”

“He’ll be on his best behavior,” the senior racer says as he flounders, processing the name Siren, wracking his memory for the source of its familiarity. Before he can gather his thoughts there’s a hand at the small of his back shoving him into his room. “Knock ‘em dead, kid!” the senior racer calls, followed by a whoop from the other.

Then the door slams shut behind him.

It’s dizzyingly silent. He stands in the center of his hotel room, stunned by the whirlwind he was just carried through- still not entirely sure what his fellow racers have in store for him.

He has an inkling. He hopes his instincts prove him wrong.

“Good evening, darling.” A smooth voice jerks him from his stupor. Ryker shuffles and wrings his hands, lingering at the edge of the doorway in nervousness. He hears a soft laugh, and then a hand is on his arm.

He jerks away on reflex and whirls around. Siren stares evenly down at him, unperturbed by his flinch.

“I-” he gasps, his voice catching somewhere halfway to the air, coming out small and frightened. There’s no questioning who this is, he remembers clearly their reputation among his fellow racers. They cross their arms and lean against the wall, their lithe form draped in regal gold silks and a see-through gown that leaves little to the imagination. He steps back, presses himself against the door, and averts his gaze. There’s no denying what they’re here for. “You-”

“Nervous?” they ask. They keep their voice gentle and soothing, and Ryker’s a little grateful for the courtesy.

“Confused,” he responds. “Mostly. Uh- I think there’s been a mistake.”

“Has there? You are Ryker, aren’t you?”

“I- yes, but I mean, I’m really not- I have a boyfriend.”

Siren shifts their hips and Ryker tries very hard not to follow the motion. “Well,” they say, and they step closer, press their elegant hand to his chest. “He’s welcome to join us.”

Ryker’s fans whir violently to life. He stammers, trying to regain what little slivers of his composure he has left. He lifts his hands, awkward and unsure, touches Siren’s wrist then pulls his hand back as if burned.

Siren must catch on. They hum and pull back and Ryker’s head spins as his space is returned to him. “I’m- I’m sorry,” he says, wringing his hands and shifting his weight. “I can’t.”

How awful. He’s wasting Siren’s time and his friends’ money. He hides his face in his hands, retreating in embarrassment. “Sorry,” he repeats.

“You don’t have to apologize, darling,” Siren soothes. Ryker peeks up at them from between his fingers. “There’s been a misunderstanding, I’m afraid,” they say, “it’s no trouble. If anything, I apologize for making you uncomfortable.”

“It’s okay,” he mumbles, so quiet and small that he fears Siren didn’t hear him, but they hum and touch his arm. The motion is soothing, this time. He doesn’t shy away in panic- even relaxes his posture and unfolds his tense arms.

“I can leave, if you want,” Siren offers. Ryker- to his own surprise- shakes his head.

“No, I mean- you can leave, but…” he trails off, mulling over his childish request. He spits it out before he can stop himself. “Can we just... talk?”

“If you want, darling,” there’s a smile hidden in their voice, “I wouldn’t mind. We have all night, after all.”

Ryker slumps his shoulders. The rest of his tension disappears, leaving him aching and drowsy. Siren takes his hand and he welcomes their guidance, offering no resistance as they lead him to the soft couch and guide him down. They sit beside him, legs crossed, hands folded neat and prim in their lap.

“What would you like to talk about?” they prompt. He rests his arms on the back of the couch and stretches the ache of the day from his joints, thinking for a moment.

He starts with his bike.

He’s not used to talking this much. Normally he suspects people don’t care for his passions- with a few exceptions- and out of some ingrained need to lay low and keep his head down he keeps most words to himself.

Siren appears to be one of the exceptions. As soon as he begins, muttering reluctantly about the model of his bike, Siren leans towards him, receptive and attentive of his voice and his thoughts. He finds himself speaking more than he anticipated, shifting his one-sided conversation into mechanics, how his ride works, how it breaks, how to fix it.

“And you do all this yourself?” Siren interjects.

“Mostly. I used to be completely on my own,” he answers, “I have a crew to help me during races- they can last for hours sometimes- but I prefer to work on my own.”

“Why is that?”

“I like- I enjoy working with my hands,” he says, hugging his legs to his chest. “It’s grounding. I don’t… I wasn’t touched very much before, because of my body.”

“Your body?”

Ryker shifts in discomfort and fiddles with the zipper of his jacket. “Yeah. It’s… weird. Um- not up to factory standard.”

He steels himself and unzips his jacket, revealing enough of his upper torso for Siren to peek at. They nod in understanding, but- surprisingly- don’t press, don’t ask why he looks this way. “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” they assure him as he zips his jacket.

“I know,” he says, and he does, he just finds himself slipping back into the old routine of putting up his walls and hiding himself away. “Dante tells me that all the time. I’ll… get it eventually.”

“I take it Dante is your boyfriend.”

Then he’s talking again, regaling Siren with stories of his life back in London, of Dante and races and clinics, until his voice is fond and the golden light of sunset peeks in through his windows. They laugh with him and offer commentary- they’re sharp and witty, but so unbelievably kind- and even exchange a few stories of their own, ones that have him laughing breathless and make his fans whir in embarrassment.

“You tell great stories,” he tells them. They’ve shifted over time, and now he’s lounging with his legs draped over the back of the couch. They laugh at his odd position and he chuckles along.

“Thank you,” they respond. “Everyone tells me I should write a book.”

“You should.”

They huff another laugh and pat his head, just over his visor. “Flatterer.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are, darling,” they hum and their touch shifts to soft brushes of their fingertips, tracing the snaking paths of blue curling around his helmet. “Perhaps I will.”

“I’d love to read it.”

The conversation lulls into a steady silence, punctuated only by the soft hum of two sets of machinery. Ryker sighs and shuts off his optics, enjoying an easy comfort. Their touch stays on his helmet, soothing him into a half-doze.

“Siren?” he asks, half-slurred, voicing his thought before it leaves.

“Yes?”

“Wanna stop by the track tomorrow? I’d like to show you around, take you for a ride.”

He pauses. Siren restrains their elated giggles, but it’s too late. The damage is done. Ryker throws his arm across his visor as his fans kick into gear, trying to cool his rapidly heating systems.

“I- I mean on my bike. My actual motorcycle. On a track. Platonically.”

“I know, darling,” Siren laughs, and with a bare amount of pressure they push his arm away. He reluctantly looks up at them, still stewing in his mortification. “I would be honored. Consider it a date.”

He retreats back into the safety of his hands.

-

[5:44 PM] Ryker: Siren’s in my hotel room.

[5:45 PM] Dante: Siren?

[5:45 PM] Dante: What are they doing there?

[5:54 PM] Dante: It must be your lucky day then.

[5:54 PM] Dante: Have fun, cariño. Let me know how it goes.

[8:02 PM] Ryker: We just talked.

[8:02 PM] Dante: That’s it?

[8:02 PM] Ryker: I can’t believe you were encouraging me.

[8:05 PM] Dante: Can you blame me?

[8:05 PM] Ryker: ...I guess not.

[8:06 PM] Ryker: They’re gonna stop by the track tomorrow. I’m gonna show them how to ride.

[8:06 PM] Dante: I think they already know that, no?

[8:07 PM] Ryker: Dante.

[8:07 PM] Dante: I know, you mean motorcycles. Am I invited this time?

[8:07 PM] Ryker: Of course.

[8:08 PM] Dante: I’ll see you tomorrow then, mi amado.

[8:09 PM] Dante: Maybe we can arrange something else.

[8:10 PM] Ryker: I cannot believe you.

[8:10 PM] Dante: ❤

[8:10 PM] Ryker: …❤